“Go home,” he said. “Get some rest.”

I walked out of the courtroom and down the wide stone steps of the courthouse.

The rain had stopped, leaving the air smelling of wet asphalt and pine.

The mist was hanging low over the blue ridges of the mountains in the distance.

I knew that thirty miles away, up the winding dirt path of Cedar Hollow Road, the cabin was waiting.

The ancient hemlocks would be dripping with rainwater.

The air up there would be clean and cold, free of the grease and tension of this courtroom.

I walked to my truck, my boots splashing in the puddles on the pavement.

For the first time in two years, I did not feel the weight of a pending lawsuit on my shoulders.

I unlocked the driver’s side door and climbed in, the familiar smell of old leather and cedar wood wrapping around me.

I turned the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life with a comforting rumble.

I shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward the highway that led back to the mountains.