T. Laine said, “You barf on my shoes and I swear I’ll make you pay.”
“You can barf on my shoes, Nell, sugar.”
“No one could tell,” T. Laine said.
“True,” Occam said.
And then I was lying down on the couch in the break room I hadn’t even seen yet, and someone closed the blinds. I felt my blanket being tucked around me as I tunneled down toward sleep and whispered, “Am I getting paid to sleep?”
“Yes,” Rick said, his heated hand on my forehead. “Yes, you are.”
The last thing I remembered was Paka stretching out beside me on the couch, her leopard warmth so wonderful and amazing that I rolled a little and rested against her.
***
It was quitting time when I woke, pink sunlight slanting through the side of the blinds. My headache had reduced from a roaring inferno to a campfire suitable for browning marshmallows and roasting hot dogs. Paka was gone, and I was alone on the couch beneath the blanket.
I managed to slit open my eyes and get a fuzzy vision of a table and chairs and two forms sitting there before I took refuge behind my lids again. I had known Occam was in the room. I couldn’t say how I had known, but I had. T. Laine sat with him, silent. I also knew they were both feeling bad about letting me scan the earth.
I cleared my voice and whispered, “I think I might live.”
“I was hoping you would say that, Nell, sugar. Hauling dead bodies isn’t in my job description.”
“I need to write the action report,” I said, my voice a mite stronger.
“You don’t remember much after that headache,” T. Laine said.
“I don’t?”
“No,” Occam said. “Lainie and I wrote reports based on what you told us at the scene. In the morning, if you remember something else, you can write your own report.”
From the doorway, outside my line of sight, had I even had my eyes open, Rick said, “I suggest that you read the reports and see if they’re accurate.” His wry tone said he knew they were covering for me.
“I promise,” I said, trying to force my eyes open some more. “I need to go home.”
“I’ll drive you,” Occam asked.
“It’s too far out of your way.”
Occam said, “Not in my new car. That thing loves an autumn ride in the country.”
I felt the tiny pull of muscles at my lips. “You got a government car too?”
He made a cat sound, kinda sneezy and snorty all at once. Derisive. “I am the proud owner of a previously owned 2015 Ford Mustang two-door Fastback GT. That baby purrs.”
My lips pulled wider. “I might barf if you take the corners too fast. I might barf if you hit the brakes or speed up too fast. I might barf just to barf, all over your newish car. And that is a terrible word.Barf. What’s wrong with the wordvomit?”
“I’ll bring you a barf bag, Nell, sugar.”
“Whoopie. Okay. Thank you. Will you get my dirty clothes and shoes and laptop and whatever else I need? Oh. Keys. And how will I get back here in the morning?”
“Your friendly neighborhood taxi service. Me,” Occam said. “I got a place outside of Oliver Springs, not too far from the foot of your mountain, so don’t argue. Piece of cake to pick you up.”
I could guess why he had a place so close to my land and the wooded hills owned by the TVA. It allowed him to shift, slip out of his house on the full moon, hunt, and then shift back without needing a place to leave his car. Smart move. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Be right back.”
I heard him leave the room, and I knew I had to fix the other problem. “So,” I murmured to T. Laine, “what will it take to make you feel better? Make you stop feeling all awful about the backlash? A foot massage might feel good about now. Or you could wash my clothes. Or put in a couple of hours in my garden this weekend.”
