Then I peered around the store again and muttered, “I should’ve known.” The wild, curly mane of dark hair, the black leather tank-top, skin-tight black jeans with holes through them and ending at the spiked boots. “Hey, why’d you stop short?” She came around, rubbing her nose. Stepping through the doors, I immediately came to a full halt. She jumped out and rushed to the shop’s glass door, holding it open, waiting impatiently for me. Sam reached over to cut the engine, then yelled, “Let’s go!’

I took a last look around at the other shops, unsure if they were abandoned or just uncared for. I knew enough to know that her excitement should worry me. We were still in an area of Kisla, but one I’d never visited. “Blake’s his middle name.” Not ready to divulge everything, yet, I went with the technical truth.Ī few miles down the road, we pulled into a semi-rundown strip mall, passing a biker bar and an exotic costume store before parking in front of the furniture store. “Huh? I thought your husband's name was Blake?” she asked. “He’s my husband,” I said, absently, as I fished in my pockets for my key. The scar it left behind serves as a reminder of what I almost lost. “Damon had a motorcycle years ago and crashed it.

“What did a motorcycle ever do to you, huh?” She glanced back longingly at her bike. In response, I made my way to the tenant parking lot at the side of the building. “But I brought a helmet for you,” she whined. “I am not riding on that deathtrap, Sam.” I bypassed her Harley sitting in front of the building. “We can take my bike to the furniture store,” Sam suggested.

We made quick work of taking the bedroom measurements, leaving out with a game plan and time to spare before my appointment with Julie. “Oh…” But before I could apologize, the doors opened, and he hustled himself and his dog down the hall. “I said they call him Old Man Newton, not that you should call him that-to his face.” She spoke from the side of her mouth, trying to muffle her words from the man who I’d unintentionally insulted. “And this”-I bent to get a good look-“must be the mute dog that I’ve heard so much about.” The small brown terrier hid behind its owner's legs. “You must be Old Man Newton?” I asked pleasantly. He let go, grudgingly, wrapping a leash around his wrist before backing into the far corner. I pressed rapidly on the call button, and through the half-opened doors I could see an elderly man snarling while smashing his gnarled finger on what I guessed was the door-close button. “Let’s go before you get me kicked out of the neighborhood.” I introduced myself to the cheerful, stout doorman before dashing with a giggling Sam at my heels to catch the closing elevator doors. I snatched her hand, tugging her into the building.

Surviving the Merge by C.P. Harris