by Angela Robb
An iScot Short Story
A LEC had been unsure how the container would fare, resting on the front passenger seat on such a winding road as this. He had thought it might be safest on the floor, but dismissed this idea at once, appalled at his own lack of decorum. Anne was his wife and she would ride by his side as she always had. He had carefully fastened the seatbelt around the container (the word ‘urn’ had a morbid ring that he despised), and so far, so good.