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As a nomad I spend all my time travelling the road, moving from place to place, with little or nothing pulling me back to what could be considered home.
That is, until I get a call from my prez, demanding I return.
I make my way back to the clubhouse, traversing hundreds of miles and making use of rest stops on the way. At one, I find a discarded book, brand new, with a date, a dedication, and the signature of the author inside.
I take it as the owner wasn't around.
Then I was schooled that a book so recently purchased, and direct from the author, was likely to be a prized possession, and only accidentally left behind.
Not usually one to feel guilty, I have this crazy idea to reunite book and owner. I didn't realise that, for a woman I didn't even know, I'd end up putting my life on the line.