Hug her? Kiss her?
Hell, I couldn’t imagine doing any of that. The idea was so foreign. Not unappealing, but foreign.
I’d figure it out if I found her.
* * *
Outside was all blue skies and sunshine. Billowing white clouds drifted above a pristine, sparkling white cityscape.
When I was a kid, my favorite part of the winter months was waking up to find an untouched white wonderland outside. Everything looked different covered in snow, almost like a foreign world. That feeling returned now.
The office felt like a freezer. As I stared out the window, bundled up in everything I managed to get my hands on, my breath fogged the glass and obscured my reflection.
Ah, my reflection. I looked like I went to Hell for an all expenses paid torture. My nose was reindeer red (appropriate for the time of year) and my eyes were puffy and bloodshot. I hated having weeks of beard growth, but there it was—almost half an inch of golden red.
I breathed out and wondered what I looked like a few days ago when I was at my sickest.
Buford’s footprints remained across the bridge, and leading into the Parks building. He left in the middle of the night for more supplies, but hadn’t come back yet. Well, not exactly. There were footprints going back and forth, which meant during the night he made several trips. Since sunrise I’d been watching for him to come back out, but nothing happened.
I considered going in for him. I was feeling better. I vetoed the idea every time. There was no way in hell I was going to risk a relapse. My throat was blissfully devoid of slime and my nose was only trickling, but going outside on another adventure was sure to set me back.
So, if Buford was alive, he was taking his time. If he was dead, he was dead.
I remembered my situation with Khakis. I only waited a handful of minutes before I’d acted, but the situation forced me to remain stationary. Buford might be in a similar circumstance, waiting for an opportune moment to make his escape.
I returned to my nest of blankets and cushions. Shortly after, my ears picked up on a soft scratching noise. Slowly, as to not scare her away, I turned my head and looked out the office. The light from my window cast far enough into Buford’s room that I could see Pickle moving around his bed area.
My heart swelled, “Come here, girl!”
She rose up, as ferrets do, and looked at me. It was then I understood her disappearance. Pickle was upset about Buford. My furry companion hadn’t seen another living person in months and this probably freaked her out.
I shrugged off the blankets and crawled to the doorway, beckoning. She stood as I was about to enter Buford’s office, then disappeared farther into its depths.
“Drama queen,” I muttered as I entered his room. Pickle scurried behind a filing cabinet. I paused and decided to wait.
I hadn’t been in Buford’s office. It was clean and neat. An absolute dream compared to my revolting cavern. It was in my nature to be organized, but I’d let myself go since settling in the college.
His sleeping bag and blankets were made up in the center of the office, while his backpack was propped up in the corner. Next to the head of his sleeping bag was an assortment of nightstand items—bottled water, flashlight, and…
A photo? Curious, I reached over and gingerly picked it up, but not before committing to memory exactly how it sat before I moved it.
When I saw who was in the picture, I froze. My hand went limp. The photo slipped to the ground. It landed face down, and I starred at the scrawled letters on the back.
Bea and Beau Wright.
Blaze.
Blaze Wright.
Chapter 5
Suddenly, everything made sense. Both looked years younger, but I still recognized her. Blaze was wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, and her hair was longer, but the same scar and chipped right canine told me it was her.
Now I knew why Buford, or Beau, looked so damn familiar. He looked like his older sister.
The odds were
Hell, I couldn’t imagine doing any of that. The idea was so foreign. Not unappealing, but foreign.
I’d figure it out if I found her.
* * *
Outside was all blue skies and sunshine. Billowing white clouds drifted above a pristine, sparkling white cityscape.
When I was a kid, my favorite part of the winter months was waking up to find an untouched white wonderland outside. Everything looked different covered in snow, almost like a foreign world. That feeling returned now.
The office felt like a freezer. As I stared out the window, bundled up in everything I managed to get my hands on, my breath fogged the glass and obscured my reflection.
Ah, my reflection. I looked like I went to Hell for an all expenses paid torture. My nose was reindeer red (appropriate for the time of year) and my eyes were puffy and bloodshot. I hated having weeks of beard growth, but there it was—almost half an inch of golden red.
I breathed out and wondered what I looked like a few days ago when I was at my sickest.
Buford’s footprints remained across the bridge, and leading into the Parks building. He left in the middle of the night for more supplies, but hadn’t come back yet. Well, not exactly. There were footprints going back and forth, which meant during the night he made several trips. Since sunrise I’d been watching for him to come back out, but nothing happened.
I considered going in for him. I was feeling better. I vetoed the idea every time. There was no way in hell I was going to risk a relapse. My throat was blissfully devoid of slime and my nose was only trickling, but going outside on another adventure was sure to set me back.
So, if Buford was alive, he was taking his time. If he was dead, he was dead.
I remembered my situation with Khakis. I only waited a handful of minutes before I’d acted, but the situation forced me to remain stationary. Buford might be in a similar circumstance, waiting for an opportune moment to make his escape.
I returned to my nest of blankets and cushions. Shortly after, my ears picked up on a soft scratching noise. Slowly, as to not scare her away, I turned my head and looked out the office. The light from my window cast far enough into Buford’s room that I could see Pickle moving around his bed area.
My heart swelled, “Come here, girl!”
She rose up, as ferrets do, and looked at me. It was then I understood her disappearance. Pickle was upset about Buford. My furry companion hadn’t seen another living person in months and this probably freaked her out.
I shrugged off the blankets and crawled to the doorway, beckoning. She stood as I was about to enter Buford’s office, then disappeared farther into its depths.
“Drama queen,” I muttered as I entered his room. Pickle scurried behind a filing cabinet. I paused and decided to wait.
I hadn’t been in Buford’s office. It was clean and neat. An absolute dream compared to my revolting cavern. It was in my nature to be organized, but I’d let myself go since settling in the college.
His sleeping bag and blankets were made up in the center of the office, while his backpack was propped up in the corner. Next to the head of his sleeping bag was an assortment of nightstand items—bottled water, flashlight, and…
A photo? Curious, I reached over and gingerly picked it up, but not before committing to memory exactly how it sat before I moved it.
When I saw who was in the picture, I froze. My hand went limp. The photo slipped to the ground. It landed face down, and I starred at the scrawled letters on the back.
Bea and Beau Wright.
Blaze.
Blaze Wright.
Chapter 5
Suddenly, everything made sense. Both looked years younger, but I still recognized her. Blaze was wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, and her hair was longer, but the same scar and chipped right canine told me it was her.
Now I knew why Buford, or Beau, looked so damn familiar. He looked like his older sister.
The odds were
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