I love this. I imagine Slade like some species of tumbleweed, blowing around with the wind.
“I can understand how you’d be curious.” Slade twisted the piece of grass in his hand. For the product of a long summer in the sun, and a dry autumn, it was remarkably resilient. He had no real wish to go into the thirty-four years of bad decisions and lousy luck that had brought him to where—to what—he was now. “The long story isn’t very pretty. Short version, I got into it pretty much the same way I’ve gotten into everything. I drift. And when you drift, you don’t have much control over what you drift into.”
The detail you provide, even commenting on the taste of the biscuit and Sally's thoughts on how to make it better.
Sally covered her thoughts by renewing her assault on the unpalatable biscuit. If only they’d used a little of the salt from the beans in the dough, she thought.
Finally, I can hear the song, smell the fire, imagine the darkness. Great job with imagery.
From across the way, she could hear the horses shift and snort, and somewhere a guitar played and a few voices sang a sad camp song. She watched the smoke drifting into the air, scenting the night air. It was pleasant, peaceful
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