14
Foxfire
Someone knocks on the door. Tank and I are in a tangle of limbs.
“Go-way,” I mumble.
“It’s okay, baby. I got it,” Tank whispers, the ghost of his fingers trailing down my back as he leaves the bed.
My mother’s voice mingles with dreams of returning to the fox caves to meet my father and convincing Jordy to dye her hair blue.
I jerk as Tank’s warm hand covers my shoulder.
“Foxfire, we’ve got a problem.”
I come awake. “What?”
“Someone slashed our tires last night. Your mom was out early this morning and found it.”
“Oh no.”
“The vandals didn’t leave a note or a anything, but the tires stink of fox piss.”
I start to get up, and Tank presses my back. “You stay. I’ll handle it. I saw a shop right around the corner.”
“Why would the foxes do this?”
“Send a message. They do
