Again, she worried. How would she ever find her way through the airport? To her uncle’s house? Suddenly, to her right, she saw her name. BETSY QUINN...was printed in bright red paint on a sign. It was held upright by a gentleman in a dark suit. When she stopped in front of him, he smiled and asked if she was Betsy. She nodded, amazed. ‘I am James Douglas. Your uncle sent me to pick you up and drive you to the house. Let me have your claim tickets.’ Betsy gave him all the paperwork she was. It was the quiet, the dark beauty of the summer nights that drew her; the desolation of the construction site and the scent of warm tar, oil, cut wood and freshly turned dirt. She would often sit on the roof of the a new house, sipping on a thermos full of cold tea and admiring the semi-apocalyptic scenery. She could almost imagine herself in a world with no other humans, wandering the post-industrial wastes and watching the chaos spring to life with thin, warped plants as the years went on. . More

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