The silhouette of the old storage barns looms ahead, cast in shadow by the hanging moon. A lamp above the double doors illuminates a yellow half-circle, beckoning me to find a hiding place within. I slip between the gap in the doors, making sure I haven't changed their placement.
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Sliver light slips through cracks in the wooden slats, and dust swirls in the air, disturbed by my presence. It smells like dry grass, dirt, and sweat. The perspiration is from me. It's the dead of summer, and I just sprinted through a forest.
The interior of the barn is devoted to storing hay. The bales are stacked atop one another like a mountain leading to the loft above. Heart thumping, I begin to climb, digging my fingernails into the scratchy horse feed. The worn soles of my secondhand boots slip a few times, but I catch myself, scraping my knees for purchase. I glance behind me, but Brooklyn hasn't followed. He's too big to slip between the doors, and I would've noticed the shadows shift if he'd opened them further.
The air is thicker at the top of the mountain of dried grass. I slap my palm onto the floor of the loft, using my upper body to tug myself onto the platform. I swing my legs over the ledge, rolling to safety. Lying flat on my back, I cover my mouth with my hands, but it does little to stifle my erratic breathing. It's impossible to find oxygen with my heart clogging my throat. I'll search for a proper hiding place first, then calm my nerves.
I shift onto my knees, examining the loft. A section of the cupola is missing, allowing night to spill inside. It's no wonder it's so hot in here if the window doesn't have panes. Moonlight douses the space, giving substance to my surroundings. Rusty farm tools and antique saddles hang from hooks on the walls. Behind me, a barn owl hoots from the rafters, incensed at having been awakened early. A rocking chair creaks beside an old haybale, but there's no sense in hiding behind it.
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There's already someone seated there.
"You chose to seek shelter in the first building you came across," Brooklyn muses, brushing his thumb across his jaw. "You're so damn predictable, bunny."
