“Planning
on skinning something?”
Dave looked up from his knife,
“Yeah, gonna skin like thirty rabbits tonight.”
“What’re you doing that for?” His mom asked.
“Gonna cook up a meal like we used
to in the olden times. Back when we were explorers in the wild west, the Great Frontier,
living day to day, not a worry but how we were going to make it til’ tomorra’.”
“Ha, ha,” his mom said, walking out
of the kitchen.
Dave didn’t really understand how
his parents never seemed to notice what he was up to. A joke was usually enough
to deter suspicion. He wasn’t sure if it was negligence or genuine trust that
he knew what he was doing. Dave liked it. He tried to not take it for granted
that they’d keep acting that way. He hoped to keep his jokes sufficiently
distracting.
The knife he was currently
sharpening was a knife that would have actually been appropriate for skinning a
rabbit. He’d decided to use this larger knife instead of the switchblade,
because he’d decided the switchblade was better as a weapon of last resort.
Besides, he kept the switchblade sharpened at all times. It was always on his
person. This longer knife needed a sheath.
He slipped the sheath inside of his
bottom left inner jacket pocket, a place that would make it easy to reach
should he need it. The jacket was a jean jacket with a fur collar; nice and
cozy, it was one he almost never wore but he’d had it for years. It would make it
easier to part with, should he need to burn it to destroy evidence.
on my way to
your place,
he typed to Elys, should be there ina few.
He didn’t get a reply but he left
anyway. It was a short walk. He was sure he was going to be all kinds of early
but he wanted to make sure she had a good plan for the evening.
And, you know, it was a good excuse
to talk to her a bit. Get to know each other. Dave sure wouldn’t mind if that
happened over the course of their mission. Before leaving he grabbed a scarf
and a flashlight. He didn’t think he’d need them but he wanted them along
anyway.
He strolled past rows of houses he’d
known his entire life. He tried to remember the families that lived in each,
their faces, what they were like. He thought about his past and whether or not
he’d ever been inside of the houses he walked past.
By the time Elys’ dad drove past,
he’d gotten back to memories from the first grade.
Elys’ house was one story, although
he knew it had a basement too. It had a faint white paint and a black shingle
roof. It wasn’t much to look at, unless you knew who lived there. Unless you
knew who they were.
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