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Clara turned off the machines.
“Go ahead and clean up, doll, while I get us some dinner. I’ll have a cold beer waiting for you.”
He stopped to give her a warm embrace, a long kiss. “You’re the best, babe.”
“Better with you.”
She went upstairs in their cozy little house to make sandwiches out of meatloaf she’d baked the night before with a little blood of the resurrected.
On Thanksgiving morning, Sloan’s Day Three, she woke early. She dressed for her walk, and when she went down for coffee, she smelled it already done. And found her mother, obviously up before the sun, stuffing the enormous turkey.
“You take your walk,” Elsie ordered. “I’ve got this under control.”
“I’ll be back to help.”
“Once this bad boy’s in the oven, we’re gold for a while. Take the dog, and take your time. We got another inch overnight.”
Sloan set out and felt good about it. Felt good she’d slept a solid eight—closer to nine—hours, and without the nagging dreams.
She walked in the crisp air with the brooding sky mirrored in the lake. Just her, she thought, and Mop, the waterfowl. Including the heron she watched glide, then dive.
He came up with a fat fish, then streamed away to enjoy his breakfast.
Stronger, Sloan realized. She honestly felt stronger this morning. When she made it to last evening’s stop, then ten steps more, she decided she could try another five.
She wanted five more yet, but reminded herself how easily she flagged on the return trip. Fifteen equaled progress.
“See?” she told Mop. “I’m not obsessive. Not pushing beyond my limits.”
She rolled a snowball, gave it a toss—just a light toss up—for Mop to leap and bite. More PT, she considered. The bending, straightening, tossing. So every few feet, she rolled another snowball.
Then stopped, not so much to rest as to exchange long looks with the big buck that stopped at the edge of the trees.
Ten pointer.
“Watch out, buddy. We’re moving from archery season to firearms.”
She hooked a hand in Mop’s collar, just in case. He aimed a series of barks at the deer, and the buck gave them both a superior look before turning and sliding back into the trees.
Satisfied, Mop shoved his muzzle into the snow.
“If I could be at work, I’d be patrolling the woods today. But we’ll get back to it.”
She only had to stop once, and did that so she wouldn’t walk back in breathless.
She went in the mudroom entrance, stripped off her gear.
Elsie sat at the kitchen counter, frowning at the TV.
“Good, now I can turn this off. I don’t know why I turn it on the news anyway. Something bad always happened I wish I didn’t know.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, the usual world bullshit, but close to home? A woman went missing down at Deep Creek.”
“How long?”
“They’re not exactly sure. Her husband got home just before six last night. She’d taken the day off because she was doing Thanksgiving dinner for their family. She wasn’t home.”