I pace the very small pace-able area in the tiny house.
I could go outside. Ishouldgo outside. Get fresh air. Stretch my legs.
But Bea would murder me if I was attacked by wild dogs or dragged off by some chainsaw murderer lurking in the shadows.
Neither of those are appealing to me either, and contrary to popular belief when I was younger, and contrary to what I told Oliver our first night on the road too, I don’t generally have a basic disregard for my own health and safety.
I only disregard my own health and safety when I have a cause more important than myself.
It’s never beengenerally.
I’m on my sixty-eighth pacing pass, listening to the sound of Oliver’s steady breathing overhead, debating dashing out to the car with my burner phone to call Bea, when I notice an unusual, seemingly useless lever beside the cabinets.
And then the outline of a trap door in the wood floor.
No. Way.
I’ve lowered all of the lights so that Oliver can sleep better, so I half think I’m imagining things with the subtle outline in the floor. I’m also wary of doing anything that will make noise.
See also, I didn’t even turn on the TV when I came down here, even though it would be afabulousdistraction.
But when I tug—carefully—on the lever, the trap door glides open silently, revealing a set of stairs.
Go outside in the dark in a strange place all alone?
No. I do prefer camping in groups. More fun with other people, and the wild animals are less likely to take on a whole pack of us. Yes, I’m a walking contradiction. I want to save the animals while being terrified of them.
But I’m not afraid of checking out a hidden basement in a tiny house by myself.
I drop to my belly and peer inside, smiling with glee as I realize the lower level is fully lit up, so I can seeeverything.
There’s a pink chair that they had to have lowered in there before putting the floor in, with what looks like a chenille blanket tossed on it and an end table with an extra lamp.
I twist my head, and—yes.
There’s another TV down there.
I push up off the floor and scurry down the stairs.
So. Fucking. Cool.
If I ever move out of my apartment and get a real house, I wantthisone.
It’s small.
It’s cozy.
And it has a lady cave, which isexactlywhat this deserves to be called.
I don’t shut the trap door until I’m sure I understand how it works so I don’t get trapped inside here—Oliver would seriously think I ran away in the middle of the night like I threatened to two nights ago—and I inspect all of the soft pink-painted walls to make sure there aren’t any other secret doors into or out of this room too before plopping down into the plush pink chair.
After I turn on the TV, I wait long enough to see if the noise prompts any response from Oliver, and then I dig my burner phone out of my bra.
Bea answers almost before the first ring has finished ringing. “Daphne?”
The sound of her voice instantly makes me feel at home. “Yeah. It’s me. What’s up?”
“What’s up?Are you for real right now? Where. Are. You?” she demands.
