The day dawned beautiful and cruel. The violence wrought yesterday on stone, wood and glass, would this day be wrought on the soul.
The Getaways felt it, knew there was no escape, and ran till they could run no more.
10 hours later, the New Mexican sunset cast their exhausted shadows over a small, dusty tavern in the middle of nowhere--a tavern jam-packed, nonetheless, with gape-mouthed patrons.
After several seconds of mutual culture shock, the Getaway Gang's eyes adjusted to the dim, smoky light, focusing on a small wooden stage at the back of the room. They summoned their last ounce of strength, and staggered onto it.
The room hushed; the clearthinking barkeep flipped a switch, and the soothing hum of musical voltage steadied the musicians' nerves. They started to play, and the night stopped in its tracks.
They played as they had never played, they sang as they had never sung. The audience was transfixed--children froze in place, grown men wept, and women dreamed of glory. The Getaways sang until they could sing no more, until the rawness in their throats and hearts were one, until it seemed every emotion--indeed every breath--allotted them in this life had been spent.
It was a thing of terrible beauty, and they believed it would kill them.
But the night held miracles untold--it was not yet finished, and neither were they.
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