The Sowing

3. Room & Board

Sebastian

The man aimed the gun at me, and it was all I could do not to cower behind my protection detail.
But more than cowardly, I just felt petrified.

Then bullets pelting glass and drywall and furniture.

Sweating and panting, I bolted awake, back ramrod straight as I struggled to recognize my surroundings.

The clattering of pots and pans and the shuffling of boots ricocheted throughout the near empty room. I waited for my heart rate to settle before lifting the window’s curtain. It was still dark out.

Although pitch black, the view grounded me. I tugged on the handle, the low whine of wood against wood crying out with the effort.

Crisp air sliced through the warmth of the room as goosebumps peppered my skin.

I reached for the phone James had given me for emergency purposes. Aimlessly, I flipped it open, scrolling through the limited contacts, itching to type in a number I knew by heart.

And what would I even say? What could I say? Most importantly, who might be listening on the other end?

A defeated sigh escaped me. I was in the eye of a tornado, guilty of believing the best in people. I was equally guilty of the deep-seated need to appease my father.

And I was on the run for it. Like a damned lamb for the slaughter. Any time I felt restless, I imagined my pursuers as characters from Pulp Fiction – and there was nothing humorous about that.

I grimaced, blocking out my looming panic. Gingerly, I opened the bedroom door, peeking my head out.

Meredith was making a ruckus of something downstairs, clearly uncaring that there were sleep-deprived guests in her midst. But as gruff as she seemed to be, I appreciated her kindness.

The recent memory of her holding the barrel of her gun to my face made me blanche. She might be just as kooky as the Pulp Fiction antagonists – just as fear-inducing as those seeking my whereabouts. I wasn't sure if the thought scared me or bought me some sort of strange comfort. Perhaps both.

I wondered what her story might be; what had encouraged her rigidity, her fierceness. Clearly, she'd been trained in some sort of governmental agency. I knew that much by way of James, whose only pre-arrival warning had been to gird my loins.

I stepped a bare foot out into the hallway, the floorboards creaking under my weight. The shuffling noises downstairs halted momentarily before resuming.

With a surprising quickness, Meredith's dog chased up the stairs, pausing at the landing. The adorable pup stared up at me, head lowering for a moment to sniff.

“Hi, buddy,” I whispered, gingerly holding a hand out for the dog to inspect.

With uncertainty, the dog sniffed before backing up again, surveying me with the unnerving scrutiny of any human.

“You're a good boy – a smart boy,” the dog's head tilted. Encouraged, I continued, “You’re a good protector and a fantastic listener too. I could learn a few things from you.”

I reached my hand closer, seeing if he'd allow me to rub his head. The dog's tail waved back and forth like he was unsure he could express unfettered excitement. Leaning into my hand, the intelligent canine let me scratch behind an ear.

I smiled in triumph. A dog's trust wasn't always easily earned, “That's a good boy, huh?”

“Butter!” Meredith's call startled us both.

Without a second to spare, the multi-colored dog with piercing eyes darted down the stairs, seeming to take them two at a time.

I slipped into the bathroom, using the tap to splash water onto my face. Our host had set out a pair of fresh towels, a couple razors, soap, and a generic shaving cream on the sink.