Thirty-Eight
Wakey, Wakey
Something very wet and sort of rough rubs against my face. I brush it away. It nudges me again, soaking my cheek. “Stop it …” Again. This time it manages to coat my lips.
I shove it and squint to see what’s assaulting me. “Oh god, gross, Humboldt! Get down!” He doesn’t, and in fact, he flops over and shows me his belly, his giant, slobbery head soiling the fresh pillow on the formerly unoccupied side of my bed. “I’m going to have to burn these sheets.”
I push myself into a sitting position, disoriented for a moment. The sun is still up. Where am I? Where is my phone? What day is it?
And then like a reality tidal wave, it all rushes back, my stomach clenching in instant anxiety-rich nausea. Rupert! The farm fire! Finan!
I clamber off the bed and run into the
