POSTCARDS FROM PLEASANTVILLE

It’s been 243 days, Alex. 243 days and 11 hours of me pacing the house wondering where you vanished. You left me with nothing. Nothing but our piece of shit car.

Then, this morning, I found these postcards in the glove compartment. Greetings from Pleasantville. What are you trying to tell me? Is this some kind of clue? How did I miss these? Where the fuck is Pleasantville? And what’s up with all the rabies? Do you have rabies? Is that what you were trying to tell me? Oh my god, did you get rabies from that rat bite last summer and haven’t told me to protect me and are planning to shoot yourself in the head as an act of bravado?

Anyway, I packed up the trunk and am heading to this hotel that keeps popping up on these postcards. The Nohome hotel. There’s a mighty lot of gas stations on the way to this place, though. It’s been 37 and I’m still counting. I’ll chalk it down to the countryside. Weird things happen in the middle of nowhere.
Just don’t do anything stupid, Alex, I’m coming for you.