Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“Steve, buddy, please. You’re better than this.”
Steve was not better than this, and neither was his friend.
I stood there, completely frozen, my flip-flops refusing to commit to either fight or flight, whilst wondering if this was going to turn into a Disney horror short where I had to negotiate with raccoons to use the bathroom.
That was when the cabin door creaked open behind me.
I didn’t even turn around. “Webb, the raccoons are back. They’re drinking piss water, and I can’t pee until they leave.”
There was silence, and then his very amused voice chuckled, “Morning, crazy girl.”
“Don’t ‘Morning, crazy girl’ me. I’ve got feral wildlife hydrating on a biohazard and flip-flops that can’t be trusted in a crisis.”
“Want me to shoo them?”
“No, I want them to learn and reflect so they make better choices.”
I expected Webb to judge my mental health and sanity, instead, all I got was, “I’ll get the broom.”
By the time Webb returned with the broom—looking both concerned and like he was trying really hard not to laugh—the raccoons had vanished like mist and bad decisions.
“Where’d they go?” he asked, broom in hand like he’d just stepped into the third act of a nature documentary.
“They disappeared. Probably to go rinse their mouths out with river water and regret.”
Webb raised an eyebrow. “You good now?”
“Actually,” I hummed, suddenly inspired, “yes. I just remembered something from that rabbit hole I fell down online once.”
He waited, arms crossed, broom still in hand, like some kind of wilderness janitor.
“If they had rabies, they wouldn’t be drinking. Rabies causes hydrophobia, which is a fear of water, right? So, if they’re drinking puddle water, they’re not rabid.” I imagine that I looked incredibly pleased with myself for figuring that out.
Webb looked at me like I’d just told him I moonlighted as a bat whisperer.
“So,” I continued, “the cute little bandits won’t have a horrible frothy-mouthed death, and I won’t die of raccoon rabies.” I beamed. “It’s a win-win.”
He blinked. “You’re... okay, I’m just going to accept that this is how your brain works now.”
I nodded cheerfully. “We all have our coping mechanisms.”
Then, realizing I still hadn’t peed, I spun toward the outhouse and took off at a brisk flip-flop shuffle, calling over my shoulder, “I do, however, need to be armed next time!”
Webb sounded alarmed. “I’m not giving you a weapon!”
I turned halfway, still walking. “Not that kind of armed.”
He frowned. “What other kind of armed is there?”
I didn’t stop. “Emotional preparedness, Webb. Tactical snacks, maybe a loud whistle! Gotta keep ‘em guessing, ya know?”
I yanked the outhouse door open and disappeared inside, leaving him behind in a cloud of confusion and lingering broom-holding dread.
And honestly, it felt like progress.
It started, as most of my bad decisions did lately, with boredom and a pantry inventory. Webb had gone off somewhere around the back of the cabin to “check the traps,” which I hoped meant something involving small game and not accidentally catching himself in a bear snare. With him gone and nothing else to do, I’d decided to see if there was anything left in our apocalypse stash that wouldn’t either catch fire or emotionally betray me like the eggs.
I found the sardines behind a box of stale crackers and a can of something with no label on it. They were sardines in oil that'd expired three years ago. Perfect.
Now, a normal person might’ve thought, “Hmm, this belongs in the trash.” But I thought of the raccoons. If they could drink puddle water outside an outhouse and still strut around like they ran the forest, surely a little expired fish wouldn’t kill them. They ate literal trash, I’d seen one chew a melted granola bar wrapper once and look happy about it.
So, I grabbed one of the least-rusted cans, pried it open with the old opener hanging by the sink—which looked like it had lived through three wars—and nearly gagged when the smell hit me.
“Oh, that’s revolting,” I muttered, holding the can as far from my face as possible.
The oil shimmered, and the fish glistened in that awful, pale way sardines do. I tried my best not to breathe while I used a butter knife to hack them into ugly, slimy chunks on a cracked plate, but my resistance to breathing was futile, so I gagged a few times.
By the time I got outside, I was second-guessing everything, but I kept going. I wandered down to the edge of the clearing, where the tree line started, far enough to be curious and close enough not to die.
I stood there for a minute, plate in hand, and then tossed the first chunk into the bushes like it was a ritual offering to the gods of chaos.
“Okay,” I called, scanning the trees, “please don’t let it be a ‘gator that answers the fishy call. Or a crocodile, whichever one this bayou has." Then, I thought about Webb's warnings and amended my list. "Or a coyote or snake. Or a snake riding a coyote.”