Page 8 of Fang Fatale

"But could you grab the cinnamon from the cupboard? Left side. Behind the ancient beans."

The next half hour becomes a scavenger hunt.

A second spoon.

A clean mug.

A pen.

Another candle.

More cinnamon.

By sunset the cottage is ringed with salt, tiny runes, and the unmistakable feeling that someone loves me enough to protect me.

Dandy plants her hands on her hips.

"There."

She sounds satisfied.

"If an average person comes looking for you, they'll forget why they came before they reach the porch. The only people who can find you now are the ones you want to see."

I believe her.

"You'll still get your mail," she adds. "I know how you feel about catalogues."

Darkness settles over the forest before she finally gathers her things.

At the door she hesitates.

"Are you going to be okay?"

The old answer rises automatically.

I'll be fine.

I always am.

Instead I try honesty.

"I don't know."

I swallow.

"But I really want to be."

She hugs me hard enough to wrestle bears before disappearing into the growing dusk, fireflies drifting after her like tiny lanterns.

I make myself a mug of instant decaf because I enjoy living dangerously and settle cross-legged onto the rug.

For a long time, I simply listen.

The forest has sounds I'm still learning to name.

Wind rattling the eaves.

Overcaffeinated squirrels tap-dancing across the tin roof.