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)
Because as much as we needed that brief spark of humor, a flicker of light in the middle of all the tension, we all knew the truth. The real work was just beginning, and we were heading straight into the heart of it.
Chapter 32
Gabby
My head throbbed like a punk rock concert was happening inside my skull. Even blinking too fast made me feel like someone had taken a paint mixer to my brain. My concussion was still absolutely a fan of ruining my life.
And paired with the fractured body, healing stitches, and the ache that lived in my bones like a squatter refusing to leave? Yeah, I was a human wreck. A mostly horizontal, snack-slinging wreck. Which was how I found myself planted on the porch in a ratty old rocking chair beside Ira, wrapped in a throw blanket like a retired pirate, feeding a gang of raccoons who clearly thought I was their queen.
Wieners, cheesy puffs, and burnt toast—the raccoon diet of champions. And they were fighting over it like they were auditioning for a National Geographic special called Trash Bandit Brawl.
Ira sipped his coffee, shaking his head. “You really think they understand you?”
“They do,” I replied firmly, tossing a puff to the one I’d decided was named Ricky. “They respond to tone, and this one knows when I’m mad.”
“You sound mad a lot.” Ira hid his smile behind the mug.
“I think I've earned it.”
He nodded. “That's fair.”
We fell into a comfortable silence, watching Ricky attempt to bodycheck a fatter raccoon off a crust of toast. That toast, for the record, had been an attempt at breakfast, which I'd cooked in that skillet.
“Don’t touch the skillet,” I warned him again. “It’s been seasoned.”
He gave me a sage nod. “That’s where the best food comes from.”
“Yeah, well, don’t tell Webb,” I huffed. “I clean it with soap and water when he’s not looking.”
Ira choked on his coffee. “You’re trying to die, aren’t you?”
“Only a little, and some of it isn't by choice.”
Then, casually, he asked, “So why are you still using the outhouse?”
I blinked at him. “Because it’s the only toilet, Ira. You think I’m doing it for the romance of it?”
“But there’s a bathroom inside.”
My mouth actually fell open. “What?”
“Nice one, too,” he said absent-mindedly, taking another sip. “Looks like it was ripped out of a catalog. All of that marble and candles and plants you’re not supposed to touch. It's the only room in the whole place that doesn’t feel like it might collapse if you sneeze near it.”
I was staring at him now, squinting like I’d just been told the moon was made of brisket. “Where's this luxury of which you speak?”
“Attached to the main bedroom. First door on the left at the top of the stairs.”
I just stared at him as I processed this treachery. “That absolute bastard,” I hissed. “That’s Webb’s parents’ room, so I never even went in there because I thought it was sacred. You don’t pee in the holy shrine of someone else’s parents!”
Ira raised an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t going to sleep in their bed,” I growled. “Just pee in their toilet. He could’ve told me!”
There was a moment of silence, then Ira let out a full-body wheeze and damn near slid out of his chair.
“It’s not funny!” I snapped, heat rushing to my face. “I’ve been showering in the yard like I’m prepping for Survivor: Bayou Edition. You know how many frogs I’ve startled while trying to squat behind a bush?”
Ira was cackling now, wheezing so hard his eyes were streaming.
“And the worst part?” I added, flinging a cheesy puff at the porch rail. “I still can’t use it. I can’t get up those stupid stairs with this cast on my leg. I’m stuck Brokeback Shitting in the Woods!”
Ira started coughing so violently he had to put his coffee down. He clutched his chest, gasping, and I suddenly panicked.
“Oh God, is it your heart? Are you dying?” Panic surged through my voice as I hovered, unsure whether to help or just scream. “I can drag you into the truck, but I’ll probably dislocate something—yours or mine. Oh my God, I did a CPR course when I was fourteen!” I frantically looked around, feeling helpless. “If I could get a signal, I’d pull up a YouTube video to double-check. Please don’t die on me, Ira, I’m not emotionally stable enough for this.”
I gestured wildly at the mess of horticulture in front of us. “I mean, it’s just a toilet. That’s not worth dying over, right?”
Ira raised a shaky hand, still laughing as he wheezed, “No... I’m fine... just...oh my God, you said ‘Brokeback Shitting in the Woods’…”
I sat back with my arms crossed and cheeks burning with embarrassment.
Around us, the raccoons gathered again—completely unbothered by the chaos as they munched on toast with casual delight, like they were watching a comedy special unfold just for them.