Page 10 of The Slug Crystal

I check my phone and find nothing. Not a single missed call, no urgent text, not even a Snail World update. I wonder if Alex is somewhere, stuck to the plastic walls of his terrarium, feeling the cosmic joke as hard as I do.

I roll out of bed and blink at Jake, who offers me the deodorant wordlessly. I accept, because I forgot mine when I was packing, and some things are more important than dignity. “Did you sleep?” I ask, my voice gravel-thick.

“Like a rock. A very sad, restless rock,” he jokes, packing the last of his duffel with the few belongings he had scattered about the room.

I shake my head. “How far did you run?”

“Only six miles, I got to see a lot of the town.”

I scoff. Only Jake would act like running six miles in the early morning is nothing. I swing my legs over the bed and force myself up. I’m not a morning person.

There’s no coffee in the room, despite the coffee maker.

Guess it’s bring your own. I drink two cups of water from the bathroom tap, taste the bitter afterlife of motel plumbing, and wonder if it’s possible to get hungover from just heartbreak and loss.

My entire chest is on fire with heartburn and regret.

By 8:42, we’re back in the truck, which is still sticky-hot even with the windows cracked.

Jake drives, silent but brimming with a very specific kind of masculine resolve, and I scroll through Google Maps, trying to pinpoint every possible place Ben could have taken the snail overnight.

Pawn shops. Craigslist drop-offs. Was there a black market for weird snails?

Did Ben have a lair? I want to laugh at myself, but all the energy I have is directed into the task at hand. I need to get Alex back, at any cost.

We loop around the block twice before finding a spot in front of The Spotted Dog, which looks even sadder in daylight.

The sign is still on, flickering. A man in a faded Eagles sweatshirt sweeps the stoop with a broom that’s missing half its bristles.

The entrance smells like bleach and defeat.

Jake holds the door for me, and I step in.

The inside is quieter than last night, the hum of the refrigerators the loudest thing going.

The bartender is the same, silver tooth, arms like smoked ham hocks, T-shirt with a cryptic slogan Catch sometimes, it's a phone. Never a snail.”

Jake, sensing her wavering, softens his voice. “Is he dangerous?”

She laughs, a short bark. “Ben? Nah. He’s a piece of work, but not a psycho. Just… likes to collect things. He’s got a house up by the river, about two miles out of town.”

I perk up. “Can you give us the address?”

She hesitates, then shrugs. “Don’t know the number. He’s probably home now. It’s the blue house with the broken fence, last on Westbrook Lane. If he gives you any trouble, tell him Mags sent you.”

“Mags,” I repeat, committing her to memory, like she’s the patron saint of the heartbroken and the desperate.

She leans in and lowers her voice. “If you do get the snail back, don’t bring it here. I don’t want to deal with you two idiots if you lose it again.”

Jake smiles, his gratitude genuine, even if she did just call us idiots. “Thank you.”

“Now get out of here,” she says, then grins, her silver tooth catching the light. “Next time I see a snail in my bar, I’m going to call animal control.”

We leave the bar lighter, if not actually hopeful, and Jake has a hand on my back as we cross the parking lot.

“I can’t believe that worked,” I say.

Jake shrugs. “You never know who will help until you ask.”

“And ask, then ask again, just in case they change their mind,” I add, jokingly.

He opens the truck and waits while I climb in. “Ready?”

I check my hair in the mirror, realize I've also forgotten a hairbrush, wince, and then nod. “Let’s go get my ex-boyfriend back.”

Jake shakes his head with a chuckle and shuts my door gently, then rounds the truck and jumps into his seat.

The engine shudders to life, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, the world doesn’t feel like it’s actively trying to swallow me whole.

There is a plan, a name, and a sort of address. A shot in the dark, but it’s ours.

Jake takes us to Westbrook Lane at ten over the limit after pulling it up on his navigation. I find myself bracing for impact rather dramatically as we hit what feels like an endless number of potholes.

Westbrook Lane is the kind of rural access road that feels like part of the route for someone planning to dump a body.

There are eight houses total, each one a minor disaster of peeling paint, toppled mailboxes, and last-ditch holiday decor faded into despair.

The blue house is easy to spot, though it’s more turquoise than blue, and the fence in front is less broken than actively dissolving.

A plastic owl sits on the porch rail, beak chipped, eyes peeled eternally for threats or the mailman.

Jake parks under a leaning elm. We stare at the house together, the windows shaded, a wind chime tangled into a knot, presumably by a prior storm.

I’m wearing yesterday’s jeans and a clean, oversized t-shirt, and I realize for the first time I am deeply, cosmically unprepared for this level of confrontation.

I probably should have worn something sexy to try to seduce Ben into giving my snail back.

Jake glances over. “You want to go over the plan again?”

“Uh, sure. The Plan. We ask for the snail back. If he says no, we improvise.”

Jake nods. “I’ll follow your lead.”

We walk up the path, which is mostly just flattened weeds, and I raise my fist to knock. Jake stands back, offering either moral support or plausible deniability, but the distinction is unclear. I bang once, with no answer. Then twice, with the same result. On the third try, the door opens.

Ben stands there in a Henley shirt and gym shorts, holding a mug that says King of the Castle. He’s barefoot and looks even taller in the daylight, with his beard trimmed and his hair spiked he looks like he’s in a ‘90s boy band. He grins, broad and inviting, like we’re here to sell him cookies.

“Well, if it isn’t Boston’s finest. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

My mouth goes dry. “You won my snail last night,” I say, then instantly regret the phrasing.

Ben glances at Jake, then back at me. “I sure did. Best bet I’ve made all week.”

I blink. “Could I get it back? Please? ”

He sips his coffee. “You got another pet to wager, or…?”

I try to laugh. It comes out flat. “No. Look, this is going to sound insane, but I really, really need that snail.”

He leans in the doorway, muscled arms crossed, gaze equal parts curiosity and mischief. “What’s so special about it? Looks like a normal slug with a shell and a paint job.”

Jake clears his throat. “It’s, uh, important to Emma. Sentimental.”

Ben smirks. “So’s my dog, which was taken by my ex-wife, but you don’t see me breaking into her place to get her back.”

I inhale through my nose, fighting the urge to throttle a man who is, objectively, a foot taller than me and maybe twice my body mass. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

He winks. “Try me.”

My brain short-circuits. I go through a mental rolodex of plausible stories, childhood pet, rare breed, family curse, and then I just blurt the truth. “My ex-boyfriend is inside that snail.”

Ben’s eyebrows try to climb off his face. “Come again?”

Jake steps up, putting a steady hand on my shoulder. “It’s true. She… Emma bought a spell kit online. Did the whole ritual. Next day, the guy goes missing, and then we find the snail. Blue shell, weird markings, the whole deal.”

Ben is quiet for a second, then lets out a bark of a laugh. “You got me. That’s a good one. Did you rehearse this on the drive over?”

I meet his gaze, steady. “I can prove it. Let me see him.”

He steps aside. The inside of the house is every bit as lived-in as the outside promised.

There;s laundry on the banister, a pizza box on the stairs, and a dartboard above the mantle with three darts embedded in the ten ring.

In the center of the living room, on a table beside the couch, is my snail.

Alex is awake, antennae extended, exploring the perimeter of the plastic terrarium.

Ben has given him a small, decorative castle and a lettuce leaf.

The sight of it, mundane and domestic, makes my chest ache.