Red
I
Bored.
Bored.
Still bored.
With much more force than was probably necessary, I jabbed the button on the remote with my thumb. There was a small sound from the TV set as its life blinked away into darkness, and yet its “death” didn’t make me feel any better. It had alleviated the monotony just a bit, though now that altercation was just transposing into a new level of nothing.
Bored.
Bored.
I rolled to the side on the couch, wrinkling my nose as it rubbed the wrong way against an old stain, leaving my nose feeling sticky. What the hell could I do now? There was nothing on the television, and none of my grandfather’s movies had held any interest for me since I was ten.
Call somebody? My friends were at school, and grandpa’s house phone couldn’t text. My cell phone was dead in my pocket, the charger in my parents’ car.
Draw? I didn’t know where the extra paper was, and to get some would require walking home and back while I felt like such shit right now. Besides, whatever I could produce with a pencil always depressed me.
Going for a walk sounded bad too. My stomach had finally stopped rolling since its impromptu appointment with my toilet this morning, but I had a feeling that exercise would only bring that feeling back. Plus, it was sunny outside, and I would think about how everybody was with everybody, probably having snowball fights at break and stuff, and I was in a staring contest with what looked—and smelled—like the black remains of spilled strawberry jam; understandably, this was as depressing as trying to draw.
I rolled over again and sat up, using my right arm, then sucked air through my teeth as I pulled a couple of hairs from my scalp. Glancing down, I saw that my hand was still on some of my auburn hair. I lifted the limb and rose the rest of the way by abdominal strength alone. The wheel in my gut was turning again.
“Grandpa?” My low voice made a groaning noise like bending metal. I stood up, listening to myself blink. This house was so quiet it was eerie. It was a silence that should normally be associated with old mansions, not my grandpa’s cheap one-story, two-bedroom apartment. I staggered to the front window, and the only sign that there had ever been a car out front was the spot in the drive with considerably less snow on it, with four slashes of smashed ice leading away from it. They disappeared into the dead black trees. The old bastard had left me home alone.
Why did my parents always insist that I stay at his house when I was sick anyway? It wasn’t like I was getting any supervision, obviously. Did they think that my sicky smell would pollute their house, so they sent me to mingle with the stench of boiled artichokes instead? I glared at the front for awhile longer before turning angrily back inside. Screw him.
I staggered to the couch again and passed out.
~*~
Something smelled really bad. I looked down, taking a moment to focus on the bucket next to my dangling arm. Based on the contents, I surmised that I had discovered the source of the stench. Charming.
I got carefully to my feet and picked up the bucket. I couldn’t remember getting the thing, or even from where. I just wished that the room would stop twisting so I could find the damned restroom and dump the bucket. My hair seemed determined to get inside, so I had to lean against the wall and pull it out so it could dangle around my elbows again.
Somehow I made it to the bathroom and cleaned out the bucket. I reemerged and sat against the wall in the hallway. My gorge was threatening to rise, and I wondered how any gorge had gotten there in the first place—I hadn’t eaten since the night before. Unless I had eaten during that period that I couldn’t remember.
Something “ree-ow”ed next to my arm, and when I investigated I found Grandpa’s old cat, Shitty. A terrible name for a cat, but apparently he had found the tabby wandering around his house and felt determined to feed the miserable animal. He had then called for him with “Here kitty kitty kitty. Here kitty kitty shitty shitty kitty…” The cat had never left, which was either a tribute to his patience or his stupidity.
“Ree-ow,” Shitty told me, his green eyes fastened to my face. I wrinkled my nose at him. He purred. Stupid cat. I petted him.
Grandma laughed and waved at me. I smiled and waved at her.
A wolf told me to stop picking flowers. Those were for Shitty to eat.
A lumberjack hacked a dog to pieces, and grandma came out.
I smiled and waved at her. She laughed and waved at me.
I woke up and stumbled to the back window, staring out into the snow. If I went far enough that way, I could get to grandma. She would only be alive as long as I could get to her before the wolf ate her. I was Little Red Riding Hood.
But where was my little red cape? I ran around the house, getting mad every time the chairs hit me in the nose. Didn’t they know that this was important? I couldn’t save her unless I had my red clothes.
I found a little cape that Grandma had made for me when I was a child in the hall closet, and threw it over my shoulders. The neck was a little small, and the button pressed into my throat. Feeling accomplished, I ran to the door, but then remembered that if Grandma had been eaten by a wolf, she would certainly be hungry. I barreled into the kitchen and cursed the counter for hitting my head. It was obviously on the wolf’s side. It didn’t care about Grandma.
I grabbed the basket of fruit my grandpa kept on his counter, then blinked a couple of times—something hot and sticky was getting in my eyes. Impatiently I rubbed it away and went out the back door and into the snow.
~*~
I leaned against a tree, laughing softly to myself. How stupid was I, that I had run out of the house, wearing an old red velvet cape and carrying a basket of plastic fruit? Some sort of fever dream, most likely.
The trees were thinning at this point—I had stumbled clean through all of those surrounding Grandpa’s house before coming out of the weird state I had worked myself into. Before me was nothing but field with more black and grey foliage and snow. The cold around me seemed to subdue the creature in my abdomen—it had circled a couple of times before lying down and going to sleep when I had sat down. Maybe what I needed was a good walk.
My butt was getting cold. I stood, pulling the cape tighter around my body and then staring contemplatively at the basket. It would have been much more useful if it had real fruit in it; then I could’ve eaten something, and felt better. Until I regurgitated it, at least. Ugh, I hated disease. All disease was terrible. It had taken my grandmother several years ago, after my grandparents had divorced, and my grandma wanted so badly to leave but couldn’t bear leaving the town in which she had grown up, moving instead a couple of miles away from her ex-husband. My feet had remembered the route across the field to get to that house, trying so badly to get there and save her, but she had been beyond saving several years ago.
I started walking.
I found quickly that the wicker basket was really bad at knocking dead twigs out of my way, but it was easier than using my hands. I was about halfway across when I saw a shadow run by my right side.
I spun, but couldn’t see it again. My heart pounded against my chest, and my head immediately felt heavier as a result. Shit. Now was not the time. I stared into the branches around me, but still saw nothing. Something rustled around me, and I turned again. Nothing. I turned again, but tripped, and my heavy head proved to be the weight that carried me to the ground.
Coming to a bit, I scrambled forward, then cried out as my hand met a broken stick. Spots of my blood littered the ground, melting the snow where it hit.
A twig cracked to my left, and, turning, I saw a shadowy form galloping toward me. I ducked, and the oversized hood of my cape fell over my head. I overbalanced and face planted in the snow and foliage with a painful crunch. I stiffened with panic as something snuffled the back of my neck, grunting. Another twig cracked.
“Holy shit,” someone whispered. “Hey, are you okay?”
Something like a hand rested on my back.
“Hello?” A growl. “Wha’d’you have, Scooter?” The voice paused. “Why’s she carrying plastic fruit? Give it back, Scooter. Scooter…”
I carefully lifted my head. There was a guy above me, looking at something to my right. Then he noticed me again.
“Hey, you’re awake.” He frowned, looking me over. “You okay?”
He was looking at me like I was crazy. I resented that. Then something cold and wet touched my right ear, and I yelped and rolled left.
“Scooter!” The guy chided. I looked over my shoulder. There was a black, fluffy dog sitting there, with white fur going from under his chin to down his chest. He was well-sized enough, but his white legs were about half the size they should have been. He was holding one of my apples in his mouth. It looked a little chewed.
“That’s the fluffiest wiener dog I’ve ever seen,” I muttered.
“He’s not a Dachshund,” the guy corrected me. “He’s a Corgi.”
“He’s got no legs.”
He laughed. “Other than that he’s a big dog, though. He’s more of a sausage than a hot dog.”
I hummed my doubt. The Corgi looked at me and growled.
“Is it gonna bite me?”
“Nah, he’s just vocal. He likes to talk.” The guy got up. “Wha’d you do to your hand?”
I looked at my throbbing palm. Blood was still oozing from the center. “I hit it on a stick.”
The guy was quiet. I looked up at him to see that he was awkwardly not looking at me. I remembered that I was wearing my pajamas—an old t-shirt and a pair of black leggings—and a red cloak, in the middle of the snow, carrying a basket of fake fruit. Okay, I could see why he thought I was crazy. I got to my feet, very slowly. I was a bit self conscious of the fact that my red cape only reached the back of my knees, and that the button was pressing into my throat.
Finally, he asked the question. “Is there a, um, reason you’re wandering around…like that?”
Despite knowing it was coming, I still had no idea how to answer. I settled for, “I was walking to my grandma’s house.” When he turned an incredulous expression my way, I realized how that must sound. “Not like that,” I scrambled. “I’m not running from the big bad wolf or anything. My grandma’s dead, and…” I stopped. I sounded so stupid.
After a moment of more awkward silence, he held out his hand. I stared dumbly at it before he prompted, “I’ll help you up.” Understanding, I took it.
Once I was to my feet, he said, “I’m Ty.”
“Kat.”
“Do you live nearby, Kat?”
“Sort of. I was staying at my Grandpa’s, and then wanted to go to Grandma’s house.”
“You out of school for Thanksgiving yet, or what?”
“Not yet. I was home sick today.”
He stared again. Blood was creeping to my face at this point. He hesitated, then said, “Didn’t you say your grandma’s dead?”
“Yeah.” My voice was getting audibly quieter and quieter.
“So why are you going?”
I gave a dry attempt at a laugh, but I knew it was more of a huff. “I thought—dreamed—the wolf was eating her. I woke up and ran out here. I’ve been sick all day, and I guess I thought I could save her.”
My eyes were blurring and burning. For some reason, the tears had a red tinge.
“Here, look now. It’s okay.” I felt his hand on the side of my head, and a soft cloth came to my face. “Did you hit your head earlier? You have blood all over your face.” I didn’t answer—I couldn’t remember anyway. “Sounds like you’re having a hard day. You want me to walk you somewhere? Your grandma’s, maybe?” He paused. “Does your family know you’re out here?”
“They don’t care,” I said harshly. The face-wiping paused, then continued.
“Did you call them?”
“My phone’s dead.”
He was quiet again, and finished cleaning my face. I opened my eyes just in time to see him slide a once-white handkerchief into his back pocket. It looked like the kind you’d find at a hardware store.
“Look,” he began, “I’ve got a phone back at my house. It’s just over that hill, if you wanna walk. That way you’re not wandering around by yourself, at least.”
Slowly, I nodded.
~*~
It occurred to me rather belatedly that following a stranger home was not the most intelligent thing to do in the world. Then again, neither was running into the snow when you were sick, wearing pajamas and a cape. It seemed I was brimming with good ideas today.
We walked in silence, listening to Scooter grunt with every stride he took through the snow. He sounded like a faulty squeaky toy, no longer making the high pitched noise every time you squeezed it, but not silent, either. His huffing would stop only when he found something interesting in the snow, and then he would sound like a rooting pig.
“Ty?” I asked. He turned to look at me over his shoulder, and his pace slowed so he walked by my side. “What were Corgis bred for? I mean, Dachshunds are hounds, bred to hunt ground animals, weren’t they?”
“Well, if you ask my grandmother, they’re faery dogs.”
“Fairy dogs,” I repeated. He grinned.
“Yeah. See the white markings on his face and neck?” I looked, and they were there, all right. Stretching from Scooter’s nose was a white stripe that stretched all the way up between his eyes and over his head, to pool at the back of his neck and form a collar that stretched around his ruff. “My grandmother says that they got those white markings by pulling the carriages of the faery folk.”
“Where did your grandma hear that?”
“I dunno. She’s Scottish, so maybe she picked it up there.” He paused. “What I find funny is that they’re actually herding dogs. I’ve even seen a picture of a Welsh Corgi herding sheep.”
“He’s too small.”
“The one in the picture was smaller than he was. I told you, he’s a big dog. He just has short legs.”
It wasn’t long before we were walking uphill. The socks on my feet weren’t adequate protection by any stretch of the imagination, and I kept tripping over everything. Ty reached back and grasped my elbow in his hand and started helping me up while his dog kept walking up the hill and then bolting all the way down. I could swear that there was something wrong with that animal. Any fairy carriage he pulled, he had probably wrecked long ago.
We reached the top, the dog following us and panting heavily. Beneath us was a sort of a ranch house. It was wood, and looked to have two stories to it. A couple of paddocks were scattered around it, but the only occupied one was to the side, and held a bluish gray horse. When it saw us, it stuck its head over the fence and whinnied. When we walked by, I saw Ty pull half a carrot from his pocket and feed it to the animal. As it chewed, it dropped its head to sniff at Scooter. They decided to be mutually disinterested in each other.
I had never been close to a horse before—it was huge. When it picked up its head, it was much taller than I was.
“His name’s Sharp Dressed Man. Like the ZZ Top song,” Ty introduced me. “He’s a rotten thing, in case you couldn’t tell already. Scooter, get outta there.” The dog skittered away from the pile of horse turds. The horse flicked an ear at Ty, seeming to decide that he would get no more carrots, and went to his feeder.
“Do you ride?” I asked.
“Nothing fancy, but yeah.” He walked to the back porch. “Come on in, make yourself comfortable. I’ll get you the phone.”
“Does Scooter go inside?”
“I wouldn’t try stopping him.”
I stepped aside so the dog could enter before me. He trotted by and dropped to the carpet, his legs all behind him, pads up, his nose stretched out before him.
“Does he always lay like that?”
Ty glanced at him, unconcerned. “Yeah, he’s just tired. He’ll be up and racing around the house again all too soon.” He walked back to me, cordless phone in hand. “Go ahead and call.”
“What time is it?”
“Umm…” He walked into another room. “About four o’clock.”
So my friends were out of school. I dialed Baily’s cell. She was the one my parents would call if they decided they wanted to know where I was.
“Hello?” Her voice was higher than usual, using the tone that she employed whenever talking to somebody she didn’t know.
“Hey.”
“Kat! You sound a bit better. You still throwing up?”
“Not anymore.”
“Where you calling from?”
“The house over the hill from the field behind Grandpa’s.”
“I didn’t know there was a house there. Do you know the people there?”
“Now,” I answered. She was quiet, and I knew she was turning that statement over in her head.
“So you just met them?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“How old are they?”
I thought about that. “He’s…about college age, I think.”
“And you feel safe?”
“Yeah.”
She sighed. “How did you get into this situation?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Oh, and you’re a guest. Gotcha.” Pause. “Do your family know you’re there?”
“No." And you know they don’t care.
“So you tell me instead. I gotcha. But listen,” she said, her tone warning. “I’d better hear from you every hour or so until you get home, or I’m calling here and I’d better get an answer or else.”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
“’Kay. ‘Bye.”
“’Bye.” I heard the line click, and I pushed the “end” button on the phone.
“All set?” Ty queried, taking the proffered phone and putting it on its jack.
“Yeah, pretty much.” I glanced down to Scooter, but he’d moved and was nowhere to be seen.
“Your parents worried about you?”
“No. My sister wants a call every hour ‘til I get home, though.” It seemed natural to call her my sister, since she practically was.
“Sounds reasonable. We should probably take care of that hand of yours, and get something on your face.” He paused, looking me over. “You can put your basket on the table, and if you want, you can hang your cape on the chair.”
“’Kay.”
I put the basket where he’d directed, and hesitated as I unbuttoned the cape. Did I feel more comfortable with it pressing into my throat, or in a worn shirt and tight not-quite pants?
The deciding factor was that if he wasn’t as trustworthy as I originally surmised, I could fight back more easily if I wasn’t struggling through lots of extra velvet. I left the cape on the chair.
Bored.
Still bored.
With much more force than was probably necessary, I jabbed the button on the remote with my thumb. There was a small sound from the TV set as its life blinked away into darkness, and yet its “death” didn’t make me feel any better. It had alleviated the monotony just a bit, though now that altercation was just transposing into a new level of nothing.
Bored.
Bored.
I rolled to the side on the couch, wrinkling my nose as it rubbed the wrong way against an old stain, leaving my nose feeling sticky. What the hell could I do now? There was nothing on the television, and none of my grandfather’s movies had held any interest for me since I was ten.
Call somebody? My friends were at school, and grandpa’s house phone couldn’t text. My cell phone was dead in my pocket, the charger in my parents’ car.
Draw? I didn’t know where the extra paper was, and to get some would require walking home and back while I felt like such shit right now. Besides, whatever I could produce with a pencil always depressed me.
Going for a walk sounded bad too. My stomach had finally stopped rolling since its impromptu appointment with my toilet this morning, but I had a feeling that exercise would only bring that feeling back. Plus, it was sunny outside, and I would think about how everybody was with everybody, probably having snowball fights at break and stuff, and I was in a staring contest with what looked—and smelled—like the black remains of spilled strawberry jam; understandably, this was as depressing as trying to draw.
I rolled over again and sat up, using my right arm, then sucked air through my teeth as I pulled a couple of hairs from my scalp. Glancing down, I saw that my hand was still on some of my auburn hair. I lifted the limb and rose the rest of the way by abdominal strength alone. The wheel in my gut was turning again.
“Grandpa?” My low voice made a groaning noise like bending metal. I stood up, listening to myself blink. This house was so quiet it was eerie. It was a silence that should normally be associated with old mansions, not my grandpa’s cheap one-story, two-bedroom apartment. I staggered to the front window, and the only sign that there had ever been a car out front was the spot in the drive with considerably less snow on it, with four slashes of smashed ice leading away from it. They disappeared into the dead black trees. The old bastard had left me home alone.
Why did my parents always insist that I stay at his house when I was sick anyway? It wasn’t like I was getting any supervision, obviously. Did they think that my sicky smell would pollute their house, so they sent me to mingle with the stench of boiled artichokes instead? I glared at the front for awhile longer before turning angrily back inside. Screw him.
I staggered to the couch again and passed out.
~*~
Something smelled really bad. I looked down, taking a moment to focus on the bucket next to my dangling arm. Based on the contents, I surmised that I had discovered the source of the stench. Charming.
I got carefully to my feet and picked up the bucket. I couldn’t remember getting the thing, or even from where. I just wished that the room would stop twisting so I could find the damned restroom and dump the bucket. My hair seemed determined to get inside, so I had to lean against the wall and pull it out so it could dangle around my elbows again.
Somehow I made it to the bathroom and cleaned out the bucket. I reemerged and sat against the wall in the hallway. My gorge was threatening to rise, and I wondered how any gorge had gotten there in the first place—I hadn’t eaten since the night before. Unless I had eaten during that period that I couldn’t remember.
Something “ree-ow”ed next to my arm, and when I investigated I found Grandpa’s old cat, Shitty. A terrible name for a cat, but apparently he had found the tabby wandering around his house and felt determined to feed the miserable animal. He had then called for him with “Here kitty kitty kitty. Here kitty kitty shitty shitty kitty…” The cat had never left, which was either a tribute to his patience or his stupidity.
“Ree-ow,” Shitty told me, his green eyes fastened to my face. I wrinkled my nose at him. He purred. Stupid cat. I petted him.
Grandma laughed and waved at me. I smiled and waved at her.
A wolf told me to stop picking flowers. Those were for Shitty to eat.
A lumberjack hacked a dog to pieces, and grandma came out.
I smiled and waved at her. She laughed and waved at me.
I woke up and stumbled to the back window, staring out into the snow. If I went far enough that way, I could get to grandma. She would only be alive as long as I could get to her before the wolf ate her. I was Little Red Riding Hood.
But where was my little red cape? I ran around the house, getting mad every time the chairs hit me in the nose. Didn’t they know that this was important? I couldn’t save her unless I had my red clothes.
I found a little cape that Grandma had made for me when I was a child in the hall closet, and threw it over my shoulders. The neck was a little small, and the button pressed into my throat. Feeling accomplished, I ran to the door, but then remembered that if Grandma had been eaten by a wolf, she would certainly be hungry. I barreled into the kitchen and cursed the counter for hitting my head. It was obviously on the wolf’s side. It didn’t care about Grandma.
I grabbed the basket of fruit my grandpa kept on his counter, then blinked a couple of times—something hot and sticky was getting in my eyes. Impatiently I rubbed it away and went out the back door and into the snow.
~*~
I leaned against a tree, laughing softly to myself. How stupid was I, that I had run out of the house, wearing an old red velvet cape and carrying a basket of plastic fruit? Some sort of fever dream, most likely.
The trees were thinning at this point—I had stumbled clean through all of those surrounding Grandpa’s house before coming out of the weird state I had worked myself into. Before me was nothing but field with more black and grey foliage and snow. The cold around me seemed to subdue the creature in my abdomen—it had circled a couple of times before lying down and going to sleep when I had sat down. Maybe what I needed was a good walk.
My butt was getting cold. I stood, pulling the cape tighter around my body and then staring contemplatively at the basket. It would have been much more useful if it had real fruit in it; then I could’ve eaten something, and felt better. Until I regurgitated it, at least. Ugh, I hated disease. All disease was terrible. It had taken my grandmother several years ago, after my grandparents had divorced, and my grandma wanted so badly to leave but couldn’t bear leaving the town in which she had grown up, moving instead a couple of miles away from her ex-husband. My feet had remembered the route across the field to get to that house, trying so badly to get there and save her, but she had been beyond saving several years ago.
I started walking.
I found quickly that the wicker basket was really bad at knocking dead twigs out of my way, but it was easier than using my hands. I was about halfway across when I saw a shadow run by my right side.
I spun, but couldn’t see it again. My heart pounded against my chest, and my head immediately felt heavier as a result. Shit. Now was not the time. I stared into the branches around me, but still saw nothing. Something rustled around me, and I turned again. Nothing. I turned again, but tripped, and my heavy head proved to be the weight that carried me to the ground.
Coming to a bit, I scrambled forward, then cried out as my hand met a broken stick. Spots of my blood littered the ground, melting the snow where it hit.
A twig cracked to my left, and, turning, I saw a shadowy form galloping toward me. I ducked, and the oversized hood of my cape fell over my head. I overbalanced and face planted in the snow and foliage with a painful crunch. I stiffened with panic as something snuffled the back of my neck, grunting. Another twig cracked.
“Holy shit,” someone whispered. “Hey, are you okay?”
Something like a hand rested on my back.
“Hello?” A growl. “Wha’d’you have, Scooter?” The voice paused. “Why’s she carrying plastic fruit? Give it back, Scooter. Scooter…”
I carefully lifted my head. There was a guy above me, looking at something to my right. Then he noticed me again.
“Hey, you’re awake.” He frowned, looking me over. “You okay?”
He was looking at me like I was crazy. I resented that. Then something cold and wet touched my right ear, and I yelped and rolled left.
“Scooter!” The guy chided. I looked over my shoulder. There was a black, fluffy dog sitting there, with white fur going from under his chin to down his chest. He was well-sized enough, but his white legs were about half the size they should have been. He was holding one of my apples in his mouth. It looked a little chewed.
“That’s the fluffiest wiener dog I’ve ever seen,” I muttered.
“He’s not a Dachshund,” the guy corrected me. “He’s a Corgi.”
“He’s got no legs.”
He laughed. “Other than that he’s a big dog, though. He’s more of a sausage than a hot dog.”
I hummed my doubt. The Corgi looked at me and growled.
“Is it gonna bite me?”
“Nah, he’s just vocal. He likes to talk.” The guy got up. “Wha’d you do to your hand?”
I looked at my throbbing palm. Blood was still oozing from the center. “I hit it on a stick.”
The guy was quiet. I looked up at him to see that he was awkwardly not looking at me. I remembered that I was wearing my pajamas—an old t-shirt and a pair of black leggings—and a red cloak, in the middle of the snow, carrying a basket of fake fruit. Okay, I could see why he thought I was crazy. I got to my feet, very slowly. I was a bit self conscious of the fact that my red cape only reached the back of my knees, and that the button was pressing into my throat.
Finally, he asked the question. “Is there a, um, reason you’re wandering around…like that?”
Despite knowing it was coming, I still had no idea how to answer. I settled for, “I was walking to my grandma’s house.” When he turned an incredulous expression my way, I realized how that must sound. “Not like that,” I scrambled. “I’m not running from the big bad wolf or anything. My grandma’s dead, and…” I stopped. I sounded so stupid.
After a moment of more awkward silence, he held out his hand. I stared dumbly at it before he prompted, “I’ll help you up.” Understanding, I took it.
Once I was to my feet, he said, “I’m Ty.”
“Kat.”
“Do you live nearby, Kat?”
“Sort of. I was staying at my Grandpa’s, and then wanted to go to Grandma’s house.”
“You out of school for Thanksgiving yet, or what?”
“Not yet. I was home sick today.”
He stared again. Blood was creeping to my face at this point. He hesitated, then said, “Didn’t you say your grandma’s dead?”
“Yeah.” My voice was getting audibly quieter and quieter.
“So why are you going?”
I gave a dry attempt at a laugh, but I knew it was more of a huff. “I thought—dreamed—the wolf was eating her. I woke up and ran out here. I’ve been sick all day, and I guess I thought I could save her.”
My eyes were blurring and burning. For some reason, the tears had a red tinge.
“Here, look now. It’s okay.” I felt his hand on the side of my head, and a soft cloth came to my face. “Did you hit your head earlier? You have blood all over your face.” I didn’t answer—I couldn’t remember anyway. “Sounds like you’re having a hard day. You want me to walk you somewhere? Your grandma’s, maybe?” He paused. “Does your family know you’re out here?”
“They don’t care,” I said harshly. The face-wiping paused, then continued.
“Did you call them?”
“My phone’s dead.”
He was quiet again, and finished cleaning my face. I opened my eyes just in time to see him slide a once-white handkerchief into his back pocket. It looked like the kind you’d find at a hardware store.
“Look,” he began, “I’ve got a phone back at my house. It’s just over that hill, if you wanna walk. That way you’re not wandering around by yourself, at least.”
Slowly, I nodded.
~*~
It occurred to me rather belatedly that following a stranger home was not the most intelligent thing to do in the world. Then again, neither was running into the snow when you were sick, wearing pajamas and a cape. It seemed I was brimming with good ideas today.
We walked in silence, listening to Scooter grunt with every stride he took through the snow. He sounded like a faulty squeaky toy, no longer making the high pitched noise every time you squeezed it, but not silent, either. His huffing would stop only when he found something interesting in the snow, and then he would sound like a rooting pig.
“Ty?” I asked. He turned to look at me over his shoulder, and his pace slowed so he walked by my side. “What were Corgis bred for? I mean, Dachshunds are hounds, bred to hunt ground animals, weren’t they?”
“Well, if you ask my grandmother, they’re faery dogs.”
“Fairy dogs,” I repeated. He grinned.
“Yeah. See the white markings on his face and neck?” I looked, and they were there, all right. Stretching from Scooter’s nose was a white stripe that stretched all the way up between his eyes and over his head, to pool at the back of his neck and form a collar that stretched around his ruff. “My grandmother says that they got those white markings by pulling the carriages of the faery folk.”
“Where did your grandma hear that?”
“I dunno. She’s Scottish, so maybe she picked it up there.” He paused. “What I find funny is that they’re actually herding dogs. I’ve even seen a picture of a Welsh Corgi herding sheep.”
“He’s too small.”
“The one in the picture was smaller than he was. I told you, he’s a big dog. He just has short legs.”
It wasn’t long before we were walking uphill. The socks on my feet weren’t adequate protection by any stretch of the imagination, and I kept tripping over everything. Ty reached back and grasped my elbow in his hand and started helping me up while his dog kept walking up the hill and then bolting all the way down. I could swear that there was something wrong with that animal. Any fairy carriage he pulled, he had probably wrecked long ago.
We reached the top, the dog following us and panting heavily. Beneath us was a sort of a ranch house. It was wood, and looked to have two stories to it. A couple of paddocks were scattered around it, but the only occupied one was to the side, and held a bluish gray horse. When it saw us, it stuck its head over the fence and whinnied. When we walked by, I saw Ty pull half a carrot from his pocket and feed it to the animal. As it chewed, it dropped its head to sniff at Scooter. They decided to be mutually disinterested in each other.
I had never been close to a horse before—it was huge. When it picked up its head, it was much taller than I was.
“His name’s Sharp Dressed Man. Like the ZZ Top song,” Ty introduced me. “He’s a rotten thing, in case you couldn’t tell already. Scooter, get outta there.” The dog skittered away from the pile of horse turds. The horse flicked an ear at Ty, seeming to decide that he would get no more carrots, and went to his feeder.
“Do you ride?” I asked.
“Nothing fancy, but yeah.” He walked to the back porch. “Come on in, make yourself comfortable. I’ll get you the phone.”
“Does Scooter go inside?”
“I wouldn’t try stopping him.”
I stepped aside so the dog could enter before me. He trotted by and dropped to the carpet, his legs all behind him, pads up, his nose stretched out before him.
“Does he always lay like that?”
Ty glanced at him, unconcerned. “Yeah, he’s just tired. He’ll be up and racing around the house again all too soon.” He walked back to me, cordless phone in hand. “Go ahead and call.”
“What time is it?”
“Umm…” He walked into another room. “About four o’clock.”
So my friends were out of school. I dialed Baily’s cell. She was the one my parents would call if they decided they wanted to know where I was.
“Hello?” Her voice was higher than usual, using the tone that she employed whenever talking to somebody she didn’t know.
“Hey.”
“Kat! You sound a bit better. You still throwing up?”
“Not anymore.”
“Where you calling from?”
“The house over the hill from the field behind Grandpa’s.”
“I didn’t know there was a house there. Do you know the people there?”
“Now,” I answered. She was quiet, and I knew she was turning that statement over in her head.
“So you just met them?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“How old are they?”
I thought about that. “He’s…about college age, I think.”
“And you feel safe?”
“Yeah.”
She sighed. “How did you get into this situation?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Oh, and you’re a guest. Gotcha.” Pause. “Do your family know you’re there?”
“No." And you know they don’t care.
“So you tell me instead. I gotcha. But listen,” she said, her tone warning. “I’d better hear from you every hour or so until you get home, or I’m calling here and I’d better get an answer or else.”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
“’Kay. ‘Bye.”
“’Bye.” I heard the line click, and I pushed the “end” button on the phone.
“All set?” Ty queried, taking the proffered phone and putting it on its jack.
“Yeah, pretty much.” I glanced down to Scooter, but he’d moved and was nowhere to be seen.
“Your parents worried about you?”
“No. My sister wants a call every hour ‘til I get home, though.” It seemed natural to call her my sister, since she practically was.
“Sounds reasonable. We should probably take care of that hand of yours, and get something on your face.” He paused, looking me over. “You can put your basket on the table, and if you want, you can hang your cape on the chair.”
“’Kay.”
I put the basket where he’d directed, and hesitated as I unbuttoned the cape. Did I feel more comfortable with it pressing into my throat, or in a worn shirt and tight not-quite pants?
The deciding factor was that if he wasn’t as trustworthy as I originally surmised, I could fight back more easily if I wasn’t struggling through lots of extra velvet. I left the cape on the chair.
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