Blood in the Low Country

“Ma’am, may I help you with your bag?”

In front of Rose stood a young man with his hands in his back pockets and his right foot resting on the first step of the dormitory entrance. The sun was at his back, and with a bag in each hand, Rose couldn’t guard her eyes but instead just squinted. “Excuse me?”

“Your bags, ma’am. We’re here to help with orientation. It’s the only day men are allowed in the women’s dorm, to help with move-in, or at least that’s what they’ll tell ya tonight when you meet your RA,” he said with a roguish smile.

“RA?”

“Your resident advisor. Don’t worry, it seems a bit overwhelming at first, but you’ll do fine.”

Rose stared at the man, seeing in him something dark but strangely familiar.

Breaking the silence, he announced, “My name is Rath.”

“Rath? That’s a peculiar name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.”

“It’s short for Rathbone, my granddaddy’s name, but everybody just calls me Rath.” Then Rath slid closer and took the bags from her hands. “And what should I call you?”

He was standing close, too close, and she smelled alcohol on his breath, yet she was taken by his dark eyes and calm southern swagger. He was tall and lean, sinewy even. His forearms rippled as his large hands gripped the handles of her suitcases. She quietly answered. “My name is Rose. I’m from Muscle Shoals.”

“Well, ‘Rose from Muscle Shoals,’ let’s get you moved in.”

The two of them started up the stairs, and Rose noticed the weather was changing as a dark cloud moved across the sun. A storm was coming.