I know I’m being over-dramatic, but that doesn’t necessarily help.I think too much, all the time, about everything, and sometimes it leads me here.
Hunter, on the other hand, is dead asleep, one arm dangling off the too-short, too-narrow cot.
“Clem.”
I blink.It’s still dark.
“Clem.”
I roll over, Hunter’s on one knee next to my cot, his face right in front of mine.
“Are you sleepwalking?”I ask him.
“Someone’s coming up the stairs,” he says, his voice so low it’s barely audible.
We stare at each other for a moment.I wonder again if he’s sleepwalking, since I know that happens a lot to people who were in the military.
“Hunter, there’s no?—”
I hear a tiny, faint creak from outside.In a moment I’m bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding.
“Is there an axe in here?”he asks.
I point at a corner.
“Probably in the crate,” I whisper.
There’s another creak, so soft itcouldbe my imagination.
Hunter pads to the crate, opens it, rummages around for a moment.Then he pulls out a long axe and holds it up, examining it.
There’s a creak, closer to the top of the stairs.
It’s a serial killer, I think.Probably dressed like a clown.
I stand up, heart pounding.
There’s a creak at the very top of the stairs, but I don’t see anything.Hunter grips the axe tighter.It’s completely, perfectly,totallysilent so it’s easy to hear the way the creaks move along the balcony toward the door.
I still don’t see anything.
“What is it?”I whisper.
Hunter just shakes his head.
“Get behind me,” he says, his voice still low.
It’s a ghost,I think wildly.I’m having a nightmare.Something.
Then a furry head pops up outside a window.
I shout and jump back.Hunter raises the axe and takes a step forward.
Then we both stop and stare.The mountain lion puts its nose to the glass and sniffs, almost like it’s judging a fine wine, and I start laughing.Hunter exhales and lets the axe drop to his side.
“Shit,” he says.
“Oh my God,” I say, taking a deep breath.“Oh God.I thought it was gonna be a serial killer dressed like a clown.”
