𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐒𝐎 | ᴍɪʟʟᴀʀᴅ ɴᴜʟʟɪɴɢꜱ

𝟗] 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆

CHAPTER NINE ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ IN WHICH EVERYTHING GOES WRONG!

"YOURE SLEEPING ON THE COUCH."

     Jacob rolled his tired eyes. "I am not sleeping on the couch."

     "Yes you are, I need my beauty sleep," I told him, already sitting down on the moth-bitten bed.

     "More than anyone I know," Jacob muttered, claiming defeat and laying down on the couch.

      We had to lay in with pillows covering our heads to block out the thumping cacophony that issued through the floorboard, which grew so loud that at one point I thought surely the revelers hat invaded our room.

     Then the clock must've struck ten because all at once the buzzing generators outside sputtered and died, as did the music from downstairs and the streetlight that had been shining through the window.

     Suddenly I was cocooned in silent, blissful darkness, with only the whisper of distant waves to remind me where I was.

     For the first time in months, it seemed, Jacob fell into a deep, nightmare-free slumber.

     When I awoke, sun streaming through my window, I realized it wasn't just my grand-
father's life that Miss Peregrine had saved, but mine, too, and Jacobs, and my father's. Today, with any luck, I would finally get to thank her.

     I went downstairs to find my it almost completely empty except for a ratty dog sitting by the fireplace. I pet it and felt around for a collar, but it seemed it had none. Many of the men in the bar just called it "Shithead" and it answered to the name just fine, no matter how humiliating it would be.

     Not long after, I looked up to find Dad bellied up to a table, slurping coffee and polishing his fancy binoculars. He said hello and I sat down next to him to get ready to eat.

     Jacob came down a few minutes later, and just  as he sat down, Kev appeared bearing three plates loaded with mystery meat and fried toast.

     "I didn't know you could fry toast," Jacob remarked, to which Kev replied that there wasn't a food he was aware of that couldn't be improved by frying.

     Over breakfast, Dad, Jacob, and I discussed our plan for the day. It was to be a kind of scout, to familiarize ourselves with the island. We'd
scope out my dad's bird-watching spots first and then find the children's home.

     I scarfed my food, anxious to get started. Well fortified with grease, we left the pub and walked through town, dodging tractors and shouting to each other over the din of generators until the streets gave way to fields and the noise faded behind us.

     It was a crisp and blustery day, the sun hiding behind giant cloud banks only to burst out moments later and dapple the hills with spectacular rays of light- and I felt energized and hopeful. We were heading for a rocky beach where my dad had spotted a bunch of birds from the ferry.

     I wasn't sure how we would reach it, though- the island was slightly bowl shaped, with hills that climbed toward its edges only to drop off at precarious seaside cliffs--but at this particular spot the edge had been rounded off and a path led down to a minor spit of sand along the water.

     We picked our way down to the beach, where what seemed to be an entire civilization of birds were flapping and screeching and fishing in tide pools. I watched my father's eyes widen.

     "Fascinating," he muttered, scraping at some petrified guano with the stubby end of his pen.
"I'm going to need some time here. Is that all right?"