Claussen looked at Apalachicola Bay, smooth as a glass table. Sitting in the shade of a Live Oak tree, a whisper of air skimmed his face. His hope for a cooling breeze vanished as the wind fell off. He closed his eyes, remembering fresh, cool onshore winds wafting from Lake Ontario.
Claussen heard the hum of car tires on the flyway to the bridge, a screeching fight between two seagulls, and diesel motors of passing fishing trawlers.
A droplet of sweat formed on his brow, but he refused to acknowledge it. He thought about the next part of his escape.
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