“Has it really been ten years?” the stoat asked himself. A smile surfaced on his muzzle when joyous memories from the past decade began to engulf his waking mind, “It’s remarkable to think I’ve been here that long.”
Trace didn’t even bother to look behind to see if anyone had heard him. Nobody else in the family had heard him speak in all those years. By now it was safe to assume that only Tyson would ever notice his presence.
The stoat stood guard by the bedroom’s window just like he’d done that first night from the hospital when the creature, posing as Tyson’s father, attacked them after their return home. Trace was watching the action intently from his favorite perch as Tyson packed the last supplies for the trip ahead into his black Honda Civic. The raccoon had finished for the time being and lingered in the driveway to casually watch Riley, his twelve year-old half-brother, practice his layups.
The auspicious warmth of late spring made the prospect of enjoying the weather’s entrancing call hopelessly impossible to resist. The cool, breezy wind spoke freely of what incredible promises summer would soon offer with the scent of fresh-cut grass and the soothing melodies of birdsong floating into their house from every open window.
But Trace’s smile soon faded once he realized that these times of grace, while blissful, had brought with them no sense of purpose or clarity.
The ermine stared with rapt interest at the partly cloudy sky with a profound yearning and asked aloud, “After all this time, am I even one step closer to the truth?” The stoat then sought the sun’s visage that was habitually hiding its benevolent radiance behind curtains of shifting cloud cover.
“I wish I knew what to do next. I could stay here and keep watch over them like I’ve done all this time. But how long can that last? I can’t keep this up forever. Even with everything I’ve seen, am I really needed here?”
His interest soon wandered back down and Trace caught sight of Tyson. The raccoon was now drinking bottled water and propping himself up against the car’s black frame as if an early start out the door was no longer an asset.
“Why hasn’t Tyson asked me to leave? I’m sure he’s not going to want me stalking around his dorm room in few months. I only wish I knew why he hasn’t bothered to ask yet. Hell, I wish I knew anything. I’m just so very lost.”
There really wasn’t much more he needed beyond a backpack—which was mostly filled with a packaged lunch consisting mainly of cold cuts—and a travel map, but Tyson’s siblings had made sure to pester and distract him long enough to make such a simple task of collecting odds and ends last a half-hour. A big smile split across his muzzle after Riley forcefully passed him the ball like an open invitation.
The ermine quietly laughed as he calmly observed the two brothers dart back and forth along the driveway, “Honestly, I may need to get blinders for that kid if he keeps it up. He won’t get out of here before sunset if he can’t even pack more than two things in an hour.”
The raccoon, now a young man and recent high school graduate, had kept quiet about his plans for the day. The stoat was the only one who had any idea where Tyson wanted to go, but the young man held what he hoped to gain from his trip a secret even from his own protector. Trace didn’t really mind if Tyson cared to keep a secret or two from him, but the ermine was still concerned about the walls the young man had recently raised.
And these walls were not the first. The raccoon had begun to build more and more of them as time transmuted youthful simplicity into suspicious, adolescent skepticism. The older Tyson became, the more he wanted to know. But there wasn’t a single question Trace could answer truthfully. The stoat still had no recollection of life before Tyson’s rescue. In his mind, there was no sensible reason for him to share of what he’d done to keep the Bishop family safe over the course of ten years. They didn’t need to worry about anything other than what they themselves could control.
“Dude, I don’t know why you didn’t just tell them you were going hiking. It’s not like you’d be lying,” said the ermine, pretending that Tyson would hear such words. His joy in watching them play had waned after it dawned on him that they each had begun to erect more barriers to keep themselves at arm’s length from full disclosure. It was like a weightless sliver of ice had burrowed itself within his heart, and Trace would do anything to have it melt away.
“Why are you making this so hard?”
Tyson and Riley were both prepared for the occasion with their sneakers, mesh shorts and athletic shirts. It also didn’t take much conditioning for sibling rivalry to manifest even if everything that led up to such an exhibition was purely accidental.
“Hit my car, Riley, and I’ll get your ass fired from the family,” said Tyson jokingly as he tried to block Riley from driving up the lane. “I mean business. I’ll file all the right paperwork and everything.”
“Mom and Dad won’t listen to you,” Riley replied while he steadily dribbled the basketball ball. The boy dared not look away from his older brother as he eyed for any weak link in Tyson’s position—an opportunity to strike—to reveal itself.
Even though the cacomistle only turned twelve just last month, Riley was now but only five inches from seeing eye-to-eye with Tyson who stood just an inch shy of six feet. The raccoon wouldn’t have been surprised if the ringtail cat eventually grew even taller by the time he finished high school. He’d still be oldest, but Tyson would likely lose the high ground if those hormones had any say in the matter.
“They know you’re out to get me, Ty. They’ll see it as a hit job and ignore whatever you say.”
“Hit job?” the young man jeered. “Where do you even get this stuff? HBO is such a bad influence for a boy your—”
It was then, during his brother’s taunt, that Riley took his chance. The ringtail cat lunged headlong with his muzzle near the ground only to abruptly pull up from the concrete, firmly clutch the ball, lean back and take a shot. But the sudden change in motion didn’t make Tyson trip over his own feet.
The raccoon had played this game enough times with Riley to know when the cacomistle lacked the heart to drive the ball home. Tyson didn’t see any indecisiveness in Riley’s eyes, but there also wasn’t much confidence in the charge. The young man predicted the pretense of attack, sprang straight on and struck the ball before it took flight. The ringtail cat burst out laughing as the ball then collided with the driver side door of the Honda Civic and slowly rolled up the driveway.
“Oh, you think that’s funny, do ya’? Tyson asked with mock anger, fighting to fend back an eruption of laughter as he put Riley in a headlock. “You won’t think it’s funny when I’m done. You just sealed your fate. I’ll make sure you won’t get a birthday next year. You’ll be twelve years-old forever!”
Their laughter died down slowly but surely when the boys heard somebody bounce the basketball near the garage door. They both turned their focus toward the front, and Tyson knew from the very moment he saw her that their game was short-lived. The person in question happened to be their sister, Sasha, who calmly waited for them to notice. Sasha stood with marked patience in her yellow tank top, black leggings, brown moccasins and Aviators.
Over the past decade, Sasha had grown from that of a precocious six year-old who lovingly hugged her injured brother ten years prior to an imminent high school junior who was outspoken to the point of arrogance. It’s not like that little girl vanished altogether. You could still clearly see her shine through the pretense if you ever happened to catch Sasha in a remarkably good mood.
“Hey Tyson,” she asked, nonchalantly handling the ball while she spoke, “what’re you still doing here? Didn’t you say you needed to take off pretty soon? That was like an hour ago. What’s up?”
Tyson smiled as he released the ringtail cat and coolly walked over to his car and snatched the water bottle left inside the cabin. “Does Dad know you took his sunglasses? I’m sure it won’t take him long to notice they’re gone.”
“Of course, Ty. Dad let me borrow them. He said it was okay before they took off. I guess you were too busy sleeping in to hear that conversation,” she said, brushing the medium-length sandy blonde hair away from her eyes. Now that the girl had gotten what she wanted, Sasha let the basketball hit the ground and bounce its way to Riley who almost dove to pick it up. Sasha wasn’t offended by what he said, but she found it funny to play it up like a slight even if she’d give herself away with a large smirk, “Just what are you insinuating?”
Tyson sighed with overstated exasperation, let out a small laugh, stared directly at Trace in the window and mouthed the words: ‘Oh my God.’ He then took one last swig, placed the bottle on the car’s hood and looked at his sister with an expression of affectionate condescension.
“I don’t know, Bandit. That’s what’s wrong,” he said with matching mischief. “Something’s always going on, but you never share your plans half the time. I don’t know why you’d take Dad’s Aviators, but you’re weird enough to take stuff like that for no good reason. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Oh, I’m weird? You’re the one to talk. I’m not the one who stares into empty space like I’ve seen a ghost,” Sasha countered. “I mean, you did it just then.”
She craned her neck to see above the porch and fought the Sun’s glare while she tried to catch sight of anything moving behind the window.
“Is Nana up there?” Sasha asked jokingly. “She’s up there, isn’t she?”
Though like always, the stoat’s presence was once again overlooked. Even if the stoat knew that Sasha couldn’t possibly see him, Trace still held his breath the second she looked him straight in the eye. Sasha held her gaze for a fleeting moment that, nonetheless, felt unbearably oppressive underneath the weight of such scrutiny.
“You either stared off into space or talked to yourself. It was always one or the other,” said the younger raccoon. Sasha had one last glance before she turned around to face Tyson with a look of smug satisfaction. “Nope. Didn’t see anything, Haley Joel. C’mon, Ty, I don’t know how you can act like I’m the weird one here when you’re the only person in our family who does this shit.”
While the truth remained that most people seemed to treat the stoat like an area of confined coldness one would best avoid, a few would actively follow him with their eyes as if he was the focal point of gravity’s attraction. Trace could see these chosen few haunt the edges of his peripheral vision like the restless specters of some unfamiliar and unresolved conflict. The stoat would occasionally catch glimpses of glares and smiles alike from these patently threatening men and women while he traveled in public with the Bishops. It didn’t happen often, but if the stoat ever saw them look his way, then that foreboding and ubiquitous warbling noise would resound and trail their steps like an echo.
Each one was a predator and, aside from their singular and ravenous interest in the stoat, there were no detectable patterns to separate them from everyone else. They posed as ordinary people, but they were all the same breed of creature as the body-stealing impostor. Whatever their intentions, whatever they were, they could be just about anyone, and they were out for blood.
“And just where are you going anyway, Tyson?” Sasha asked. She then looked away from the window after what must’ve felt to the ermine like an eternity and examined the contents of Tyson’s car. The younger raccoon stood ready and eager to continue her quest to slow him down with more snarky commentary, “I know you just can’t wait to attend your precious commuter college and all, but don’t you think you might need to take just a bit more stuff?”
“As much as it pains me to admit this, I hope you never know I’m here, Sasha,” the ermine said with that dull, relentless ache in the chest coloring his thoughts with the bright and lively textures that come with reminiscence. “I don’t want you to wake up one day and look at me the same way they did. I know I’m only a stranger you’ll likely never meet, but I don’t want you to change. I love you just the way you are. In fact, I don’t want any of you to change.”
“Tyson’s probably a drug dealer. That’s why he hasn’t told us where he’s going,” Riley declared as the cacomistle sunk a three-point shot from the sidewalk. The boy was unable to keep his cool as he ran to grab the ball before it rolled into the street. “I’m sure he’s got this camper set up in the woods where he cooks meth for all the neighbor kids,” the ringtail cat chortled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was hooked on his own supply.”
“I’m not sure about that, Riley,” Sasha asserted. She disregarded the boy’s childish enthusiasm but was not above entertaining his theory so long as it amused her.
“Tyson here still has all his teeth. If Ty was a junkie, I’m sure he’d look more crazy. Right now he just acts crazy, so he’s got that much going for him.”
Tyson rolled his eyes so she’d notice and said, “Shut up, middle child. But hey—,” he then chimed as the young man suddenly remembered just why it had taken him so long to get everything he needed.
“I do need your help with one thing. You think you could do me a favor, Bandit?”
“I can do any number of things,” she retorted. “You’ll need to be more specific if you want my help.”
“I just need to grab one last thing before I go. I’d really appreciate it if you helped me look for it,” he said. The mischief hadn’t fully left his tone of voice, but it had been mostly supplanted with a candor that bordered on the somber. The expression his eyes conveyed noticeably softened the second Tyson asked, “Please, Sasha?”
“Well, you were polite enough to ask me nicely,” Sasha conceded. The authenticity she sensed was enough to change her whole approach into one of compliance. “I’ll see what I can do. What do you need?”
“I don’t know where they put the compass. I knew Dad had it on him when we went to Ledges, but it wasn’t with the provisions. Do you have any idea where he might have put it?”
“Honestly, I’d bet good money that they put it in the first aid kit. Did you look and see if it was there?” As she finished giving her advice, Sasha began to grasp the implications behind what the young man was asking, “You going hiking or what?”
“Actually, no,” he said with a titter, ignoring her last question. “I haven’t tried the first-aid kit yet. It makes sense for it to be there, I guess. It just didn’t cross my mind until now.”
While Tyson blithely strode his way to the porch, Sasha realized where the older raccoon intended to go. And this sudden insight filled her with an unexpected uneasiness. Sasha could still easily recall everything Tyson had told her in confidence when they were children. She was there for him when nobody else would listen, and she believed Tyson even when his word alone was the only evidence he could offer as proof.
Even then, his sincerity was all that a young Sasha needed when she was six to make her into a true believer. The vulnerability Sasha saw in his eyes was filled with the same fear and apprehension she recognized from their past. It was the same dejected look he gave her when Tyson first told her the truth about this girl he once knew. It really didn’t matter what happened back then. What mattered most was that Tyson honestly believed that not only was she real, but that he’d deserted his best friend in her time of need.
Regardless of what truly transpired, Sasha could tell from his face that he felt like he’d done little else but abandon this girl to some horrible fate. From Tyson’s perspective, her life was not an illusion he conjured from thin air. She had once lived in his memories and was maybe still alive out there if he looked hard enough. With time he grew from a little boy to a young man, but in all that time Tyson never forgot about Daeja LaBrie.
The older raccoon didn’t far before she called out to him, “Tyson,” she began hesitantly, “are you going where I think you’re going? Is that why you didn’t want to tell Mom and Dad?”
The young man came to a complete stop on the porch and turned to face his sister. Childhood’s familiar vulnerability had once again reappeared.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t remember,” he answered after a brief pause. Tyson knew that it wouldn’t do him any good to deny that he accidentally affirmed Sasha’s suspicions. She had stumbled onto his plan, and it was too late to assume that he could simply ignore this fact.
“I mean, it’s been so long since we talked about this, and I didn’t think you’d still feel the same way nowadays. Mom and Dad never got it, but you weren’t like them. Sasha, you were the only one who paid attention; and I miss those days when we could talk about stuff like that. But why should I expect you to react the same way now that we’re older?”
“Tyson,” the younger raccoon softly answered, bridging the distance separating them as she walked up the driveway, “it’s not like we can’t talk. We just didn’t do it so much after a while. I’m sure we can find room in my busy schedule to make up for lost time.” Sasha impishly cocked her head to one side, cracked a crooked smile and tapped him on the shoulder with her fist. “We’ve got all summer. That should be plenty.”
“Could you guys fill me in here? I have no idea what’s going on,” said the ringtail cat. Riley had paid no mind to their conversation until Sasha began to approach Tyson on the front porch. It was then that the cacomistle took note of what little could be heard over the sounds of his practice drills. Tyson and Sasha were so occupied with each other that they failed to hear Riley drop the basketball and follow them up the driveway. “What’s he really up to, Bandit? It’s drugs, isn’t it? You’re in on it, aren’t you?”
“’Fraid so, Riley,” said Tyson before Sasha could answer. The old mischievous vivacity once more livening his language with irreverence. “It’s got everything to do with drugs. In fact, I’ll be at my crack shack all day, but I won’t bring back anything for you. I’ll share what little I have left with Sasha.”
“This can’t be about the car,” Riley replied with feigned outrage. The boy made no attempts to hide the wide grin he bore while mounting the front steps. “That was your fault!”
The ermine smiled fondly as he heard all three barge inside their two-story suburban home. He drew in a deep breath, took a step back from his perch and began to walk toward the bedroom’s closed door. The stoat was in a slightly better mood now that they’d gotten some much needed traction, but his mind was yet immersed with thoughts of that night ten years ago. Trace often wondered if maybe his presence had been the root cause behind the attack. The imposter who attacked him with the stolen body of Tyson’s father regarded the ermine like a former friend or ally. This fact unnerved the stoat to no end. The ermine couldn’t forget anything the creature had told him, and there was one word in particular that lingered in his tissue like a splinter.
‘Azazel’, Trace thought as he gently took the knob and slowly turned it. The stoat was cautious whenever he moved about the house. For ten years, Tyson had to actively go out of his way to leave the doors open so Trace could easily sneak around and not raise any fears. Thankfully, they likely wouldn’t hear the bedroom’s door squeak open if they kept shouting on the first floor.
‘I’m guessing it’s not much of a compliment. But still, he knew me. That’s why he followed us here. Now with him gone I’m stuck at square one. And it’s not like that other guy would want to help me figure this out,’ the ermine added, thinking about the cagey gray fox who set him alight during Tyson’s rescue and threatened his life again when the two met for the second time later that night. ‘He’s probably the only other person who knows anything, but I sure as shit am not going to ask for his help. Not after he tried to kill me.’
A decade had come and gone, but there was still so much Trace didn’t understand about his circumstance. For instance, the ermine neither needed sleep nor the sustenance food provided. Trace could easily interact with everyday appliances like everyone else, but the shifting, seasonal conditions left no impact on his body. The stoat only ever felt a cool, comfortable numbness regardless of the changing seasons.
But by far the most peculiar aspect had to be his clothing. The stoat’s attire was rarely consistent for any set amount of time, and Trace lacked the power to alter whatever he donned on a daily basis.
What Trace wore today bore little resemblance to the semi-formal wear—black cardigan, gray button-up shirt and brown corduroy pants—he had on that first night home. Right now, the ermine wore a slim-fit, cardinal red V-neck shirt with dark blue skinny jeans. This specific outfit was the getup the stoat happened to have on his back the moment Tyson awoke after the dust had settled the subsequent morning. The transition was as simple as somebody flipping a switch. One second the stoat was prepared to model for a Ralph Lauren catalogue and the next he appeared primed to pilfer the nearby Urban Outfitters for a new wardrobe.
The only two articles that never seemed to change from day to day were a pair of yellow Chuck Taylor’s and black Burberry trench coat. The style of shirt and its color would often change, but one particular detail always persevered: a symbol of a lit torch held within the confines of a closed circle. The inexplicable symbol never went away, and its continuous reoccurrence only served to remind Trace that, even if he wasn’t a ghost, he was most assuredly anomalous.
As a whole, the stoat was but a single, solitary question nobody could answer.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said aloud while he crept warily into the hall.
It didn’t take the ermine long before he passed the many framed pictures that hung on either side. Not all the photos were of the same scenes that welcomed Trace into their home that very first night, but they still lovingly captured images of a bustling family that Trace grew to love. Each photograph the stoat saw was a simple yet striking reminder of everything he could lose if he chose to leave. He’d not only risk their safety if he stayed, but he’d no doubt risk their lives if he left for good. No matter the choice, every move he made to keep them secure was an unjust gamble.
“I know I can’t stay here, but now it’s too late to walk away,” the ermine said as he leaned over the wooden banister. “That thing might be dead, but that doesn’t mean others like him won’t come around and try again. I can’t just leave them after everything I’ve seen.”
While descending the carpeted stairs, Trace’s mind became captivated with thoughts of that mysterious stranger who threatened him on the basketball court that dreadful and ill-fated night.
“He must’ve called them over to the house,” Trace said, thinking back to when he stumbled home from the neighborhood park after his contentious confrontation with the gray fox. The ermine, worn for wear yet miraculously healed, was received upon return by an ambulance’s flashing light bar. A fire engine and two police cruisers were soon to follow as the entire street was mobbed with officers and weary bystanders. Their house effectively became a crime scene when the area was sealed with yellow tape at about three o’clock in the morning.
EMTs and paramedics originally found the Bishop family unresponsive and exhibiting characteristics common with deep sedation. They’d been anesthetized with the aid of barbiturates while they slept in their bedrooms. Police discovered a funnel, tackle box and a small container of bleach beside a meticulous layout of knives, cleavers and power tools all arranged with care on the kitchen table.
Initial suspicions centered on the direct complicity of Luther Bishop, but they fell flat when the attendants on scene found conclusive evidence that he’d been tortured right before being introduced with a particularly high dosage of phenobarbital. Even though his were the only set of prints they could identify on the utensils, it was determined that Mr. Bishop had been out cold for around the same amount of time as his family.
It was later revealed that the specific tranquillizers used by the attacker had originated from nearby Mary Greely Medical Center. Nurse management there later reported the bottle of barbiturates as stolen once they found that the pharmacy had been looted and vandalized. The drug itself was likely lifted from the hospital about a half-hour after Tyson was discharged. It wasn’t possible for Luther to have gotten the bottle unless he had help from an accomplice, but they could find no proof to lend substance to such claims.
Thankfully, not only was the boy left unaffected by the ordeal, but apart from his father, the family had no memory of the incident and suffered no real long-term, negative consequences. Unfortunately, Luther Bishop was repeatedly swept under the waves of a mighty deluge of nightmares. For many months during sleep, he saw his body and mind seized by some unseen spirit of malice that was locked in battle with a shrouded intruder. And every dream ended with that same intruder slashing his throat open with the razor-sharp ruthlessness of his bared teeth. Luther would then fall limp and lifeless on the living room’s plush couch while this creature, drunk on blood, hollered wildly like a mad beast. And it was that otherworldly racket which forced one frightened eyewitness to alert the authorities.
The caller didn’t give the operator any clues to his identity, but nonetheless, he told them everything they needed to know for officers to look into a possible home invasion. Nobody on their block had placed the call or recognized anyone whose voice fit the distinguishing traits described by investigators. The voice heard on the other end probably belonged to a high school-aged boy whose delivery and inflection were distinctly effeminate in tone. The caller didn’t even give his name, so little else was considered after the wellspring of clues had dried up so prematurely. What united everyone was the simple yet compelling belief that the Bishop family had an angel watching over them that night.
“Nobody else could’ve done it,” he said in a muted, reflective voice. This hadn’t been the first time Trace ever considered every minute detail and their possible importance. “The whole neighborhood was asleep, and his voice fit the descriptions. But that only begs the question: If he did place that call, then why didn’t try to help sooner?”
That always struck the ermine as wholly mystifying whenever he began to break down the sequence of events. No matter how often the stoat considered the fox’s motive, Trace could never make sense of how or why everything back then unfolded as it had.
“It’s not like the guy couldn’t defend himself. No, he was there the whole time, and yet he must’ve waited for me to act. But why trust my judgment and then treat me like a threat? It makes no sense. What did he expect of me? The guy acted like I was no better than that thing. So why give me that chance if I was so dangerous?”
But before the stoat could reaffirm his theory, Trace was abruptly cut off by Tyson and Sasha. The two had returned from their search with the red and white first aid kit in tow. Trace stood silently near the bottom of the stairs as Sasha tried to force the box into her brother’s hands. The ermine chose to remain silent while they spoke so as not to distract Tyson. After ten years, Trace still fought the urge to join them in conversation. It hurt more than anything to experience this family and all their love from behind a locked window. The ermine was forced to linger in stasis while Tyson and the rest grew before his very eyes.
‘More than anything else,’ Trace thought solemnly, ‘I wish the others could hear me. Just once.’
“Look, I know Iowa State isn’t quite good enough for your highness,” Tyson conceded, “but we don’t live in some ‘cultural desert’ like you said. We’ve got a lot more going for ourselves here than corn and soybeans.”
“No, I said Iowa is a cultural black hole,” Sasha shot back. “If you’re going to quote me, Tyson, quote me accurately. If you really plan on being an actual journalist one day, then you should probably learn to avoid misquoting too many people. I’m sure, you don’t want to face a libel suit, right?”
“Bring it. They can sue me all they want. I’m always up for a good fight,” he said flippantly, all the while ignoring her strong desire to thrust the kit into his arms. The older raccoon instead reached out and boldly opened the front door behind him as an act of defiance.
“I don’t need the whole thing, Sasha. I just need the compass. It’s not like I need to take the first aid kit with me to go hiking two dozen miles away. I won’t get myself hurt. But really,” Tyson added after a brief period of deliberation, “a cultural ‘black hole’? Kinda harsh, don’t cha’ think?”
“Yeah, I probably could’ve phrased that better. Iowa isn’t an awful place,” the younger raccoon defensively responded. “I don’t want to stay here my whole life, Tyson. I want to get out there and see the wider world. And it’s not like I’d be gone for good. Chicago’s not all that far from here. I can always come back if I ever feel homesick. People around here are fine, but they’re too—“
“Complacent?”
“Pretty much,” she said with a small laugh.
*clink-clank-clink*
The stoat’s ears perked once he heard the sound. It was the grinding and metallic sound chain links made as they were hauled across pavement. The sound rang out like the source was just beyond the threshold’s border in the driveway. His throat seized all breath as he stared at the Bishop kids to see if the sound registered. Neither of them broke from their talk like they’d been momentarily interrupted by a stray sound. Trace knew that it would be irrational to jump at every odd noise he heard as if each could be a portentous omen, but the prevailing instinct to act was always powerful. Ever since that night ten years ago, the ermine couldn’t help but keep his ears peeled just in case that dreadful, menacing warbling sound reappeared.
“Tyson, just take it. It’s only a precaution. And who’s to say you won’t get hurt out there? You could trip and fall over a rock and not even see it. Anyway, I think this might be the same first aid kit Mom wanted you to keep in your car. She wanted you to have it for reason, so it couldn’t hurt to hold onto it.”
Sasha then let the kit dangle as she took this seemly chance to hug Tyson in the foyer. This time Tyson didn’t resist his sister struggle to assert her will upon him. Not only did he assent, but this time he followed suit and lovingly hugged her in return.
“And try not to split your head open this time, alright?” she said after a moment of silence. “I don’t want to see anyone else staple your head back together.”
“I know. That was gross, right?”
“Not really,” she answered with more honest affection than good humor. “It was pretty cool to watch them come out when I was six. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
“Yeah, you are weird. But don’t worry. I’ll try and convince Mom and Dad to keep you around. You’re useful enough.”
“I’m so glad you’ve got my back, Tyson,” said Sasha with great sarcasm. “It really warms my heart to know that I can always count on you to put in a good word for me.”
She then backed up a few paces, tilted her head and began to study her brother’s face. After a brief pause Sasha said, “Hold up.”
She slid the Aviators off her snout and placed the pair of posh sunglasses atop Tyson’s muzzle and smiled fondly as he returned her loving gaze with an innocent, bewildered expression.
“I hate to say it, but I think they look better on you.”
“Fine, Sasha. You win. I’ll take it with me,” the young man peacefully relented, taking the first aid kit from his sister with gentle care.
Tyson, his eyes now hidden behind the blue-tinted reflective lenses, beamed a large smile at his sister and said, “But you got to help me hide my stash when I get back home. We need to make sure Riley doesn’t get his filthy mitts on our drugs. The kid’s proven himself unworthy.”
*clank-clink-clank*
The sound of scraping metal resurfaced right as Tyson began to step past the door and into daylight. What was most alarming for Trace was the fact that this racket had only drawn even closer while those two bantered. It had since stealthily traveled up the driveway and garden path only to crash under the eaves where they both could have heard it easily enough. But neither Sasha nor Tyson seemed troubled by anything on the prowl or primed to attack.
“Hey Tyson,” she called out to him after he’d hopped off the front porch, “you better not lose those sunglasses. I will make you suffer if you don’t have them on you when you get back.”
Tyson didn’t even slow down to pose a quip, and likewise, Sasha didn’t bother to wait for a reply or watch him leave. She simply let out one last laugh before proceeding to head deeper into their house. Thankfully, Sasha forgot to shut the door in her haste and thus conveniently gave the ermine his much needed exit. He wasted no time in pursuing the young man to his car. The stoat chose not to lunge out the door like danger was near and imminent, but Trace wasn’t going to ignore his everyday surroundings even if Tyson saw no reason to raise his own defenses.
As Tyson sauntered along at a steady pace, Trace chose to tread onto the front porch with care as he sought to scan the patio and driveway for any clues. But there wasn’t anything in sight that stood out from the ordinary as he walked down the garden path. It did put his mind at ease to watch Tyson leave the passenger side door open for the stoat before he strolled over to grab his water bottle on the car’s roof.
Trace took one last look around the house’s exterior and then contentedly slid inside the black sedan when it became apparent that there was no reason to assume the worst. Trace found no evidence of either claw or fang hiding in plain sight, but trusting the eyes to tell the whole story would be mistakably unwise.
It paid to be vigilant even if they rarely ran across anything startling or incomprehensible. Monsters weren’t in wait around every corner, but Trace had seen his fair share of them to know that they still lurked out in the open. You might not always find monsters when you make a turn, but odds were that you’d run into them eventually if you made all the wrong moves. And if the ermine had any say in the matter, Trace would be there to ensure that Tyson always moved in the right direction.
“You about ready, Tyson?” the stoat calmly asked.
“Yeah, just about,” he said absently. An oddity on the car’s roof had caught his eye. Tyson wasn’t sure what caused him to notice it, but there was an innate aspect to its mere existence that roused an inborn, instinctual desire to know more. When the young man looked down he saw that the dewy circle where his water once stood was slightly bigger and more oblong than it should’ve been. He stared at the wet shape a moment longer before he shrugged it off and took his seat next to the stoat.
Tyson shut the door, turned the engine over, looked straight out the windshield and said with much diffidence, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you anything beforehand. I just didn’t know what you or anyone else would do if I said too much. Sasha understood, but Dad wouldn’t get it. He’d pretty much fight me the whole way if he knew.”
“It’s okay, dude,” Trace said serenely, dispassionately watching the pleasant, suburban houses and their tidy, impeccable lawns speed past the window. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t need to feel sorry about anything. In any case, I already know where we’re going. So there’s no need to convince me why it was best for you to keep quiet. I understand.”
“Oh, well, okay then,” said the young man with mild relief.
Trace was thankful for the fact that Tyson had kept his eyes on the road ahead of them. He was also thankful that Tyson didn’t notice him flinch from the pain he felt shoot down his arms like an electric shock. The ermine grimaced as he felt them both begin to swell with an unbearable weight, lock up and then drop like two stones. They each shivered for a moment as Trace tried to prompt a simple response. The stoat was about ready to raise this issue with Tyson when the ache suddenly abated. The weight had been lifted from his arms, and it was replaced with that same benign numbness he’d felt for the past decade.
When the last vestiges of electric shock dissipated, the ermine leaned back into his seat and stared inattentively at the felt ceiling.
Trace folded his hands behind his head, played with his perennially short black hair and wondered, ‘I don’t know if I can take much more of this.’
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