“Maisie!” She’s breathless and important, clipboard clutched to her chest. “You’ve seen the flyers? Good. We’re mobilizing. Three of us so far, but I expect more at Thursday’s meeting.”
“What exactly are you watching the neighborhood for?”
Mrs. Pritchett’s eyes go wide and serious. “Everything. Didn’t you get my note? The Chevy, the coyote, Captain. Three C’s, now that I think about it… Is that another clue?”
“I honestly couldn’t tell you.”
“And the lights, Maisie.”
“What lights?”
“Out on the ridge. Two nights running now. Greenish, moving. And the brush along the wash is trampled down like something’s been coming and going.” She leans closer. “I’ve felt watched. Late at night, when I’m out walking. Like something’s out there.”
Gram appears by my side. “Desert mirages, Deborah. The heat plays tricks on the eyes. You ought to know this by now.”
Mrs. Pritchett’s mouth pinches. “Mirages don’t leave tracks, Eleanor.”
“Well, you certainly do. Maybe you’re chasing your own tail?” Gram smiles pleasantly. “Coffee? Maisie just made a pot.”
The offer works like a trap door. Mrs. Pritchett follows Gram inside, and within minutes Gram is giving Mrs. Pritchett the latest gossip from her season in Montana, and even though Mrs. Pritchett has little to no business in Montana, she certainlywon’t let that stop her from getting the juicy details.
I raise an eyebrow as Mrs. Pritchett’s clipboard sits forgotten. Gram tops off her cup and asks about the new gravel mix for the succulents, and just like that, the ridge is forgotten.
For Mrs. Pritchett, anyway.
I stand at the counter, my coffee gone cold, and watch my grandmother work. She’s good at this. Redirect, distract, smooth over. The question is whether she’s protecting me or if she’s simply bored of all the talk about the ridge.
Soon enough, Mrs. Pritchett leaves unsatisfied, her flyer stapled to my telephone pole and her suspicions undiminished. The safety committee is out there with clipboards and binoculars, and they’ll find something. And when they do, they’ll blame the unfamiliar. The thing that doesn’t belong.
They’ll blame Oz.
Gram settles back into the armchair with her wool. Her hands pull and shapethe fiber into a small cylinder, and I suspect she’s making a wiener dog.
“Gram.” I sit on the couch, choosing my words carefully. “What do you know about the ridge?”
Her fingers keep moving. “What’s to know? It’s rock and dirt and whatever the Lord put there.”
“You’ve lived here a long time. You must have heard things. Stories.”
Gram stretches the wool between her thumbs. “The desert works in mysterious ways, Maisie Louise. All kinds of things out there we don’t have names for.” She glances up, mild as milk. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. I figured if anyone knew what was up in the ridge, you would.”
“Mm.” She returns to her wiener dog, shaping the snout with precise movements from her tools. “Oh, did I tell you? Basil got into the alpaca feed this morning. Twelve dollars a bag, and he treats it like a buffet.”
She’s deflecting. I’ve watched her do it a hundred times, to salesmen and nosy neighborsand anyone who asks a question she doesn’t want to answer. But she’s never done it to me.
Maybe it’s tit for tat. It’s not like I’ve been exactly up front lately.
I want to tell her the truth. The words are right there, sitting behind my lips:Gram, there’s a creature living in my house. He’s kind and he’s warm and he helps me make soap and I think I might be falling for him and I’m terrified.
But something holds me back. Gram has been my anchor my whole life. The one person who never flinched, never judged, never left. If I tell her and she flinches now, I don’t know what that does to us.
I keep my mouth shut.
That night, after Gram goes home and the desert goes dark, I sit on the back porch with my knees pulled up. The ridge is a black silhouette against the stars. Somewhere out there, something is moving.
Oz is beside me, his surface cool and dim in the darkness. His hands find my shoulders without asking, and his thumbspress into the knots that have formed there despite his best efforts.
