Heather—my neighbor.
I swipe it open, blinking at the screen’s glare.
Hey! Sorry to bug you so late. My pet sitter should’ve arrived by now but I haven’t heard from her. Can you go check on her? Make sure everything’s okay?
I stare at the message until the fog clears.
Right.
I must have agreed to help Heather out while she was away for the holidays.
All I really remember is how desperate I’d been to get the manic, high-pitched human off my front porch before she talked me to death.
It’s not just my body that slows down in winter; my mind does, too.
Thoughts slip away before I can get a grip on them.
Makes it easy to live quietly.
Makes it easy to avoid things I don’t want to feel.
But it also means I sometimes wake up half-asleep, with no idea how I promised to spend my evening.
I sigh and swing my legs out of bed.
A promise is a promise.
Even when I’m barely awake enough to walk in a straight line.
I drag on jeans,pull a flannel over my shoulders, and shove my feet into my boots.
Don’t bother with a jacket.
No need—my skin always runs hot.
Outside, the snow is falling again—fat flakes drifting down, taking their sweet time.
Heather’s cabin sits a short walk up the ridge.
I blow out a breath and start trudging uphill. My muscles are still half-asleep, my steps heavier than usual. The snow crunches underfoot—soft, rhythmic, almost hypnotic.
I try to think about what I’ll say when I get there.
Something polite.
Something that won’t scare the crap out of a human.
But my brain won’t hold the thoughts.
The night is so quiet I can hear every tiny thing—the shift of a branch, the soft plop of a pinecone falling, the distant creak of ice settling.
And then?—
A sound that doesnotbelong.
Small.
Human.
