THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 11

"Di-a-bolical!" Mary Browne smacked a fist on the roof of the Saab. Gris barked, like the dog in those cute-ass Disney flicks. "So we've got the yurt. I can't believe it!"

Mary's Saab, a 1978, had blistered brown paint. Ginger stood by her car, a gold BMW convertible. The contrast was jarring, but they were used to it.

'The guides moved down to Moose— they got tired of being harrassed," Ginger said, looking pretty harrassed herself. Her Mom had been moved to some rehab place in California. Her father was in some sort of trouble, business stuff. He'd been raging around, slamming doors, yelling into the phone. She told him she was going up to the ranch for some peace and quiet, and he went berserk. That was weird— he used to like having her up there, far from temptation. Anyhow, he'd told her to stay away from the ranch, period, and then gone to New York to talk to his lawyers. She intended to keep well out of his way when he got back.

"Right," Mary said. "You should stay up at the yurt. Can you, like, influence him to keep his ski-nazis off our case?"

"He's got other stuff on his mind— better not to bring it up again. When I first asked, he accused me of wanting a place to hang out and take drugs. I told him what a straight-edge you are: good influence. He said you don't look like one."

"In other words, I should keep a low profile."

"If that's possible. You're the one who'll be living there full-time. We'll have to cut wood and stuff. There's a wood-burning stove."

"Check. Is there, like, rent?"

"I think the guides got charged out of their paychecks. But you're not a Ski Village employee. I'll find out."

"Don't rush— if it doesn't come up. . ."

"Why make an issue of it? After all, it's just a weird Chinese tent in the woods."

"Mongolian."

"What?"

"A yurt is a Mongolian tent."

"Whatever."