I was beginning to think I’d need to start putting my old number down on applications, even though that would mean going through the pain of accessing my last phone’s remote voicemail box.
One of the reasons my account was low was because it’d never stopped withdrawing automatic payments for my phone plan. So it was still working in its ephemeral cloud sense—just not in its physical form.
But one Saturday afternoon, the trill of an incoming text message made me look up from the nose work I was doing for the little polar bear on Noelle’s statue.
I picked up the phone from the metal chair I always set it on just in case one of the job places called.
But it wasn’t a job texting me.
Boone: HEY SUGAR, CAN YOU COME OVER TO MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW? 9-1-1
9-1-1. American shorthand for emergency. But what kind of emergency could Boone need me for?
I set the phone down. Thinking it had to be a joke. Some kind of trick to get me to come running after days of radio silence.
I picked up the detail knife to return to the little polar bear. Then lowered it.
But what if it isn’t?
What if Boone, who’d done so much for me, actually needed my help?
With a worried feeling in my chest, I set the tool back down on the metal chair and rushed over to the one-story cabin to the left of the widow’s cottage to make sure he hadn’t fallen or burned himself or gotten hurt in any other way.
None of the doors in the Outer Limits had locks for reasons that came down to: you don’t steal from or try to harm the kind of paranormals who can easily track you down and murder you in a myriad of grisly ways. But I knocked anyway.
“Boone,” I called out. “It’s me. Bell. Are you in there?”
By now, my heart was racing with increasing concern.
What if he really was hurt? What if I got here too late and he?—
The door opened on my panicked thoughts. I caught my breath…
…then burst out laughing when I saw Boone.
“‘S not funny,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his Herculean chest in what I could only describe as a toddler-like sulk.
“You’re right! You’re right!” I agreed, biting down on my lip to make myself stop. “But what happened?”
His messy white hair, which had grown even longer and wilder over the past few weeks, looked like it had been attacked by a weed whacker. One side was still long but of blunt varying lengths. The other was significantly shorter and spiking out from his head in a way that made it look like he’d been partially electrocuted.
Or...
“Were you planning to hit an eighties new wave festival without me?” I had to ask. “I love Flock of Seagulls!”
“Stop laughing!” he growled when I lost it again.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped between giggles. “I’m sorry, it’s just—what happened?” I asked again.
“I tried to give myself a haircut,” he replied between gritted teeth. “It didn’t go so hot.”
“I can see that.” I wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes. “But why didn’t you call Ravik or Zion to help you?”
Boone huffed in a way that put me in mind of the Gemidgee Paul Bunyan statue having a bad day. “They’re both busy up in Bear Mountain doing Christmas in July shit. You would not believe how seriously that town takes it since they’re always too busy stuffing their faces for incoming hibernation when the real one comes around. And you used to cut your own hair all the time when you were younger, so...”
He stepped back to let me into his house. “I need you to come unfuck this up.”
So it wasn’t exactly an emergency. But as much as I was trying to keep my distance, it turned out that turning down any request for aid from the guy who’d already done so much for me was virtually impossible.
