Page 2 of The Sasquatch and the Hairdresser

“Good morning. What can I get you?”

I huddle self-consciously in my coat, hoping I don’t look as rough as I feel. “Just a cup of coffee, please. Black.”

He nods and fills a generously sized mug for me.

I pay the two bucks, internally wincing when I notice I’m down to my last twenty now. I’ve got no idea where I’ll stay tonight or how I’ll pay for it, but that’s a problem for later.

“First time in Mystic Hollow?” he asks as I take the steaming mug.

“Uh… yeah.”

He smiles. “Welcome. I’m Cumar.”

“Uh… thanks. I’m Skylar.”

He studies me for a long moment, and his expression softens. “I hope you enjoy your time here. Mystic Hollow is a special place. Many come here looking for something or just needing a place to feel safe for a while, then end up staying.” He grins. “I’m one of them.”

I take a sip of my coffee, rich and woodsy, and shift from foot to foot. “Is it… uh… true that the town is protected by magic?”

“It is. In fact, you would never have been able to enter if the magic sensed any ill intent from you. Mystic Hollow only welcomes those it deems worthy.”

I gape at him. “What, like some kind of invisible magical fence keeping assholes out?”

He throws his head back and laughs. “That’s a good way to describe it. In essence, yes, anyone harboring violent or dangerous intentions is kept out. The magic repels them so they cannot cross the town’s borders. Same goes for town residents. Should they start harboring such impulses, the magic will boot them out. How that works, I’m not quite sure. Fortunately, we haven’t had that happen, not since I’ve been living here anyway.”

I don’t have a fucking clue how magic works, but what Cumar’s told me makes me relax in a way I haven’t in months. Damien will never be able to get to me here, which is a massive point in this town’s favor. Now, if I can just figure out my employment situation…

After thanking Cumar for the coffee, I settle into a seat at an empty booth in the far corner of the shop. No one bothers me even though I’m the only human in the place and probably stick out like a sore thumb. Instead, I get warm smiles but I’m left alone.

I’d already known Sanctuary Havens were created to shelter and protect Otherkind, mostly from douchebag humans. We learned about that in elementary school. However, my reading before I decided to move here told me that these special towns are basically open to anyone so long as they aren’t speciesist asshats.

And apparently so long as the magic accepts them.

But stigma is still everyfuckingwhere, and few humans choose to live in places where they’re in the minority. Me, I’m happy to get the fuck away from most of my species.

Living in the city, I’d come across my fair share of Otherkind. They don’t call NYC a melting pot for nothing. But in my whole time living there, I never had any trouble from Otherkind I met. It was always my fellow humans I had to watch out for.

Yet another reason why moving to a place like Mystic Hollow has its advantages. I’m kind of done with most of humanity.

Taking out my phone, I plug it into the wall socket, relieved to see my battery charging after being almost out of juice. I pop in my earbuds and pull up the patient portal site for me to check in for my virtual therapy appointment. This isn’t the ideal time and place, but I didn’t want to miss my session. Therapy has been a guiding light in the darkness since everything that happened with Damien.

I only have to wait about five minutes before I’m admitted to the virtual room and see Dr. P’s familiar, friendly face. She’s one of the few humans I trust.

“Hiya, Doc,” I say quietly. “Sorry I have to do this while I’m in a public location, but I didn’t want to cancel. We’ll just keep things light today if that’s cool.”

She smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. “Of course. It’s good to see you, Skylar. How are you doing?”

I wrap my free hand around my coffee cup, chasing the warmth it offers and trying to keep myself grounded. “Surviving,” I say with a shrug.

“And that’s something to be proud of. Don’t forget that.”

“I know.”

“How are you sleeping?”

I wince and run a hand through my hair, jonesing for a cigarette. “Not great. I’m not having nightmares about what happened so much anymore. But my sleep’s been restless. It’s like my body’s on edge all the time, like I’m waiting for another attack at any moment.”

Dr. P studies me with sympathetic brown eyes. “It takes time for your body and mind to recover from the kind of trauma you experienced. What you’re describing is frustrating, I know, but it’s normal. Have you been using the sleep aid medication I prescribed?”