We Dream of Mountains

We Are the Victims of a Myth

Three days later, Mac was sitting outside again, this time without a cigarette.

"Alright?" he greeted, stopping in front of her house. She didn't answer.

"What're you doing today?" she asked instead.

"Uh," he paused for a moment, catching his breath. He'd had a late start, and had jogged faster (practically sprinting) to make up for it. "Just work."

"Can you blow it off?"

"What, all of it?"

Mac giggled. She was clearly excited, and began jumping up and down slightly. "Yes, silly! All of it! What do you do, anyway?"

Nothing interesting. "Graphic design, all that."

"Can you take a day off?"

"Well, why?"

"Do you wanna go somewhere with me?"

"Alright."

That was not what he meant to say. But Mac was already celebrating.

"Yay!" She leapt forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She smelled like lavender and vanilla.

"Alright," he said again, chuckling. "Just let me get changed."

"No!" she chided. "We're walking, you'd just get all dirty again."

"What, are we leaving right now?"

"Yeah! I've been waiting for you to make it here."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"No."

She gave him a reckless grin, and tugged on his arm, already leading him on their adventure.

"Wait," he said, and she stopped. "I've got to call my . . . " he didn't quite know how to finish the sentence.

"Right! Yes, call your office." She began walking again, this time backwards. "But make sure to catch up to me." She winked, then turned around and continued walking.

He truly did not know what he had gotten himself into.