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“No, I can’t do that, I’ll get in trouble. Please don’t tell on me, Shiloh. I will do anything,” Olive says, fat tears dripping down her cheeks. She sniffles and backs away, her eyes squeezed tight.
Between the raccoon in our back room and the child tears, I don’t know what to do.
“Just get out of here, slowly. I’ll handle this,” I whisper, in the most soothing voice possible.
The raccoon goes back to molesting the grain, instead of lunging at Olive as she leaves. She closes the door to the hallway, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. At least, it’s contained now.
A raccoon loose in Woody Finch’s main taproom would make the paper. Again.
My next broom nudge is to the ribs as the raccoon sticks its little black hands into the bag, but once it touches its fur, it flashes its teeth at me, absolutely pissed off.
It happens so fast.
The ball of fear launches at my bare legs. I try to pivot out of the way, but I’m not quick enough and I feel a hot sear on my thigh. I drop to the ground, landing hard on my knees. I’m now face-to-face with Darryl the raccoon.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
He’s closer to the door, but still stares at me.
“Get out of here!” I scream. The raccoon hisses, his hackles raised. My hand grabs for the nearest item, a roll of toilet paper. It doesn’t have the necessary force, but it surprises the animal enough when it bops him in the head. The roll startles the demon creature, so I launch another one, and another one. The animal is stunned.
My toilet paper bombs give me enough time to stand up to grab the broom, an all-around better weapon.
I take a stance, and the raccoon looks at me, unimpressed. “Come and get me,” I yell, posturing with open arms.
The raccoon figures it’s not worth it and scampers outside. I walk to the back door, slam it closed, and lock it.
Leaning on the door, I scan the area to see nothing out of place or distorted.
My head becomes woozy when I look down at my leg. There’s a bright red gash I can’t look at it for too long or I will fall to the ground.
I don’t know how I get to the office, but I find Olive in Kit’s lap.
“Um, I think I need to get checked out,” I say in the doorway, and I walk in, careful not to get blood on the doorframe. “And I need to sit down.”
“Let me call Jackson,” Kit says, pulling out her phone.
“Why him?” I ask. Then, the lightheadedness hits me, and my head drops between my legs.
8
Jackson
“Where are you?” Mom asks, panicked.
“In the brewery,” I say, pinning my phone between my shoulder and ear. I now take my laptop into our tiny storage closet that keeps the cleaning supplies. I turned over a bucket and have been happily working here when I know Shiloh is on shift. She hasn’t caught on yet.
“Good,” Mom says, not questioning why I’m working at eight p.m. on a Wednesday. “You need to take Shiloh to urgent care.”
“Why, is she okay?” I slam my laptop shut and stick it on one of the shelves, next to the window cleaner. My mind races to life-threatening situations, like an aneurysm or accident. My heart clinches that she’s hurt. I’m not sure why I care.
“I think she was bit. She has a gash on her leg. It’s not too bad.”
“Bit by what?”
“A raccoon attacked her.”
