Ellen’s forehead cracked painfully against the window as her Aunt’s ancient pick-up hit a huge hole in the questionable country road, waking her from the most bizarre dream. A vague memory of writhing vines only amplified her desire to vomit. She swallowed, one hand over her mouth and the other clenching her seatbelt.
Aunt Marg chuckled beside her.
“Sorry about the road, the pot holes get bigger every year,” Aunt Marg said, her ever-present smile making dimples in her cheeks.