Chapter b250 /b

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When I finally reached the familiar cornfields a few hourster, I slowed to a trot and then stopped at the edge of the property.

The old farmhouse sat in the distance, and to my relief, lights were on in the windows. Yellow light spilled out onto the front porch, and I could see the faint glow of what looked like a television through the living room window.

He was alive. He had to be alive if the lights were on.

I shifted back to human form before walking up to the front door and knocking.

To my relief, heavy, booted footsteps approached from inside. But when the door swung open, it wasn’t the farmer standing there–but rather a woman in her forties with graying hair and tired eyes. She was holding a shotgun. The same shotgun that the farmer had been holding thest time I’d been here.

“Who the hell are you?” She made sure to hold the gun where I could see it, although she didn’t point it at me. It’s past midnight.”

My heart lurched, but I held onto hope and forced a smile. “I’m looking for the farmer who lives here,” I said. “ Is he avable?”

“What do you want with my father?” A younger man appeared behind the woman, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’ste, and he’s not well.”

Not well. Fuck.

“I just need to speak with him for a moment. It’s important.”

“Look,dy, whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested,” the woman said, adjusting the gun in her grip. “And if you’re here about the farm debts, you’ll have toe back another time. Dad’s too sick to deal with business right now.”

“I’m not selling anything,” I said quickly. “And I’m not here about money. I just… He helped me about a week ago, and I wanted to check on him.”

The woman and man exchanged nces. “What’s your name?” the man asked.

I hesitated. I couldn’t give them my real name, but I also couldn’t lie about having met their father. “Ste,” I finally said.

“Who’s at the door?” A weak voice called from inside the house. I immediately recognized it as the farmer’s voice, although it sounded much frailer than I remembered.

“Some girl named Ste,” the woman called back. “Says you helped her outst week.”

“Ste… Ste… Sounds familiar…” There was a pause, then: “Let her in.”

“Dad, you need to rest-”

“Let her in, Mary. I remember her.”

The woman—Mary–sighed and stepped aside reluctantly. “Five minutes,” she said to me. “That’s it.”

I nodded and followed her into the house. The living room was small and cluttered but cozy and well–lived–in, and there was a little girl sitting on the old id sofa, watching a ck and white movie bon /bthe TV. She didn’t look up as I entered–just kept eating her bowl of ice cream.

“He’s in the back bedroom,” Mary said, gesturing down a short hallway. “But he tires easily, so please keep it brief.”

I walked down the hallway, my heart pounding harder and harder the closer I came. The bedroom door was cracked open, and I could see the edge of a hospital bed inside.

I knocked softly and pushed the door open.

The farmer was lying in the bed, propped up on several pillows. He looked older than I remembered even though it had only been a couple of weeks, his face gaunt and his breathingbored. An oxygen tube was tucked under his nose.

“It’s you,” he said, smiling faintly when I stepped into the room. “You’re much prettier when you ain’t covered in mud.”

I would haveughed if it weren’t for the circumstances. Instead, I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me. “What happened? You were fine when I saw youst week.” fn7c57 Find the newest release on find?novel/fn7c57

The farmer chuckled, although it turned into a cough. “Been better, I’ll give you that. Doctors say it’s my lungs. Started gettin‘ sick about three days after I gave you that ride to Ashw.”

Three days. Three fucking days since I told him my true identity.

My throat bobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

“What? Nothin‘ for you to be sorry about,” the farmer said. “These things happen. I’m seventy–three years old -not exactly a spring chicken.”

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