The Flock of Luka

A few days later, Darren sits in one of the garden chairs on the porch with Greta in his lap. She stretches every once in a while, clearly enjoying being scratched behind her ears and under her chin.

It’s twilight, the sun is sinking before him as he turns his head to the west, tinting the sky in a rosy shade.

Suddenly he hears the crunch of gravel, the only sound besides the crickets and Greta’s pleasured sighs.

Darren looks up, surveying the surroundings until he finds the source. Along the dirt road walks a man – or boy, rather; he can’t be that much older than Darren himself.

There’s something very strange about the guy, but he can’t really put his finger on what it is, if only he was closer. His clothes are odd, that’s something that crosses his mind. He can’t really tell whether the pants are green or blue in the fading light, but it looks strange combined with the dark, suit-like jacket.

What’s even more odd, is the was the guy is walking, the way he’s looking straight ahead, looking very determined and Darren simply can’t look away.

The guy comes to a halt by the white mailbox that adorns the point where Darren’s driveway begins, turning off from the road. He sticks his hand into the pocket inside his jacket, pulling out a paper, or an envelope. Carefully, he puts it in the white metal box, eyes flickering to Darren and his place on the porch. He sends him a tiny smile and gives a vague nod before turning and continuing down the dusty road.

Darren’s gaze follows the boy until he can’t see him anymore. Slowly, he rises from his seat, ignoring Greta’s slight whine as she involuntarily has to jump down. He steps down from the wooden deck, his movement causing the automatic light outside the door flicker to life. The dark is already complete now, the sun long-since gone.

Reaching it, he opens the post box, hesitantly letting his fingers grasp the paper, there’s some text on the centre of the envelope, but it isn’t until he’s back under the porch light that Darren can read the two words, written in blue ink. ‘Darren Wilson’. He turns it around in his hands, staring at the sealed flap.

“Darren,” his father calls, opening the front door and poking his head out. “Time to go to bed, son; we’ve got an early morning.”

Darren nods, tucking the letter in his pocket, lifting up Greta in his arms and follows his father inside.

Later that night, when Darren emerges the bathroom, wishing his parents goodnight as he passes their room, passing through the hallway to get his room on the eastern gable end and turning the light on, he finds the three dogs cuddled up on his bed.

He closes the door with a tired sigh. “Right; get down,” he orders, watching them sternly until they obey. “Thanks,” he tells them, giving Bob a soft pat on the top of his head as he slips down between his sheets.

Just a minute later, he feels Bob jump up again, setting the springs into motion.

“No,” Darren tries. “Bob; get down.” He’s really too tired to be bossy. “Down!” he groans tiredly, and to his own surprise, the ginger dog obeys.

But then the whining begins. That miserable, heart-breaking sound that makes Darren squirm uneasily. Chris’ paws are at the edge of his bed, just an inch from his face and he can see the glint of his eyes in the dark.

With a deep sigh, he caves. “Alright; up you go,” he says desolately and swears that Greta’s light growl is a ‘thank you’. Bob and Greta quickly install themselves by his feet while Chris ends up snuggled close to Darren’s chest. Weird dogs.