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I smacked his arm. “Did you happen to miss the part where I mentioned flesh-ripping fangs?”

Paxton blinked at me. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Before I could slap his arm again, he took hold of my hand. “I’m kidding. Just trying to make you forget. Did it work?”

“I definitely feel better than I did ten minutes ago.”

Paxton patted my thigh. “Good. Still got microwave popcorn in the cupboard?”

“I do.”

“Great.” He hopped up. “I’ll pop some, and we can watch something on television. I hear there’s a Twilight movie marathon on Netflix.”

“Very funny.” I picked up the throw blanket Raina had knitted for cold winter nights. It was summer, and the day had been blazing hot, but tonight I needed to wrap myself in her blanket. Lately I’d been working hard to push strange, inexplicable events out of my head, but tonight’s was going to be hard to tamp down, no matter how hard I tried.

Four

Flickers of the terrifying attack in the citrus trees flashed through my mind as I showered and dressed. Keeping busy at work would help tamp the visions down. I sat on the bed to yank on my shoes. I always seemed to be in a harried rush lately. Paxton and I stayed up too late, but it had been one of the best therapy sessions of my life. We talked about everything except the stranger in the orange grove and Paxton’s tattered love life. I discovered that my wonderful friend had won not one, but two science fair competitions, and he’d played tuba in the high school band. He mentioned that being gay was not outcast-worthy enough, so he added tuba player to the mix. We laughed, nibbled popcorn, and paused our own conversations just long enough to recite the dialogue from our most beloved Gilmore Girls moments. It was the perfect antidote for the terrible afternoon attack.

Paxton knocked lightly on my open bedroom door. He was holding a frozen waffle in his fingertips. “Sweetie, I think your frozen waffles should be donated to the waffle museum.”

I laughed and hopped up from the bed. “It’s my experiment in waffle fossilization. There’s some toast, or I could make the salad that I planned last night.”

Paxton’s face crinkled. “Think I’ll wait for the muffin cart at work.”

“I’m sorry about that.” My gaze swept past my shelf and then shot back to it. “Wait, where’s the trio?” Paxton stepped through the doorway. We both searched around the small room.

Paxton looked under the bed. “Not here.” He stood up with a thought. “You mentioned you took them to work. They’re still in your purse.”

“No, I took them out and put them on the shelf. I’m sure of it. I’ll have to look for them after work. I’m late.”

“I can drive you, but we need to stop by my apartment so I can change.”

I shook my head. “I’ll catch the bus. I can’t be late again. Mark will blow a fuse.”

We both gulped down coffee, and Paxton followed me out. I locked the door, and we headed down the stone path. A layer of clouds had drifted in, and a misty summer drizzle was hanging in the air.

“Shit, my hair is going to kink up like a poodle,” Paxton complained. We stopped at the sidewalk to part ways. Paxton’s car was parked in front of the neighbor’s house under the shade of their maple tree.

I hugged Paxton. “If I haven’t told you this lately, you’re the best friend a girl could have.”

“I know.” He smiled. “And you’re the best friend a gay tuba player could have. See you in a few. Have a nice bus ride.”

I chuckled. “That’s like telling someone to have a nice root canal.” I turned from him to walk toward the bus, then stopped suddenly. “Fudge and Twinkies … the car.” I spun back around and lunged for Paxton’s hand to stop his progress.

“What? Is the attacker back?” Paxton glanced around frantically.

Car tires chirped as a vehicle jumped the curb right in front of Paxton’s car. It came to an abrupt stop against the tree trunk.

Paxton grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Holy shit, Rafi. I would have been under that car.”

We didn’t have time to lament all the horrible possibilities. We raced toward the car. Steam hissed out from the hood. An elderly man sat confused and disoriented in the driver’s seat. His left hand was limp at his side as the right one squeezed the steering wheel so tightly his gnarled knuckles were white.

“Hello, sir, are you all right?” I asked.

He looked at us, his eyes glazed over. Paxton pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance. It seemed the man had had a stroke or some kind of health episode, but he didn’t appear to be injured from the accident.

“The ambulance is on its way,” Paxton said.

“That’s good. I’ll wait with him,” I told Paxton. “You go ahead.”