8
Tank
“Okay, let’s figure out where your mom is,” I say as I pull into a diner. It’s still before nine a.m.
“Her vehicle wasn’t at her trailer.”
“Where does she work?” I park and get out.
“She teaches art at a community center and makes jewelry and other crafts to sell to tourists. Dreamcatchers, wind chimes, stuff like that.”
“She makes a living doing that?”
Foxfire shrugged. “Enough. She’s never held down a job, as long as I’ve known her. But the way she lives, she doesn’t need much.” We sit down and open our menus.
“The thugs who tore up her place—they probably spooked her. Does she have friends she could’ve run to?”
“I have no idea. Could you maybe sniff her out? You know”—she drops her voice–“in furry form?”
“In public?”
She shrugs. “I could get you a collar and leash.”
“
