Page 5 of Before the Bond
I shook the thought from my head and took a deep breath.
I moved carefully along the edge of the yard.
Even more condemning than the grass was a huge footprint just over the cottage’s fence. It wasn’t a standard footprint either.
The dirt dug deep into the ground, the mud at the edges curled up from being pushed upward by an intense force. It was too deep to be anything made with a simple, quick leap. Let alone plain running.
Okay, so last night was real.
What was that guy? Some kind of Terminator?
I went back inside and stood in the kitchen for a long moment with my hands wrapped around a glass of water. I ran through the situation as slowly and calmly as I could.
Fact One: I found a naked man (with the exception of a blanket) face-down in the grass with no pulse and inexplicable hyperthermia.
Fact Two: I performed CPR and revived him.
Fact Three: His eyes were red.
Fact Four: Said man pinned me to the ground with a strength that a person without a pulse shouldn’t have. He said something about seven years and ran off.
I drank the water slowly.
I ran through the rational explanations. Disorientation. Adrenaline. Maybe hallucination.
Or I was losing it.
I would laugh if it didn't sound so depressing.
Once I was in the living room, I flipped through the local channels. No news about naked men running, unfortunately.
As the morning settled in more, I found myself thinking about something else as well. I didn’t know where the man went. That meant he could be anywhere. More importantly, that meant something bad could happen to him.
Maybe I was crazy. But he could still be in trouble.
Even if he was… “alive”, that didn’t mean he was safe. An irregular heart condition meant that he could pass out again. If he was delirious, he might stumble into someone less calm and get into an altercation.
He needs to be okay.The thought came back, sharp and insistent.
I dragged my hands over my face.
I should have called someone last night. I knew that. It said something about the state I was in — just completely out of my element. But I was steady enough now.
“I can at least ask about him around town,” I said to myself.
That way, I could flag it with someone who knew this town and its people better than I did. Give the relevant details to the right person and let it become someone else's problem.
I might regret going further down the rabbit hole, but it was better than being sorry.
I dropped the mug into the sink, swung on a canvas jacket, grabbed my keys, and made my way to Greyhollow proper.
I didn’t know what I was going to find there. I only hoped it meant no more surprises.
I reached Greyhollow around noon. From the town square, I could finally see the place for what it was. It was the kind of small town that looked best in low light. In daylight, the fog just made everything feel off.
Ambiance aside, I perked up a little. I had a routine for new places. I developed it over seven years: coffee, walk, map exits.
Main street was quiet the way small towns were quiet on weekday mornings. People moved in and out of buildings with the ease of having nowhere to be in particular. Some of the standout buildings included a hardware store with hand-lettered signs in the window, a diner with a fog-stained window (perfect for the coffee), and a post office wedged in the corner.
