Feral

Chapter One

          "Honey, are you sure you don't want to come with us? We called Barbra on standby in case you changed your mind," Lacey's mother called as she hopped over the steps of the front porch. The floorboards creaked under her faded neon running shoes. She wore a pair of khaki running shorts and an oversized tank top that fluttered in the wind. Lacey shook her head, reassuring her mother. 

"I'm fine."

         Another dainty figure joined Lacey's mother and said, "It's been three months since we've gone for a run. Are you sure you don't wanna join us?"

         "Nah, I have an ethnography paper to finish and I already offered to watch the kids. You guys have fun. Ok, that sounded cheesy, but you know what I mean," she responded without taking her eyes off her laptop screen as she glided her fingers over the keyboard. Claire rolled her eyes and huffed. 

         "Come on," Claire tried again. "I know you and Peter called it quits, but you shouldn't have to skip out on the runs to avoid him. We waited two months for this. Aren't you itching to go running? I can't remember the color of your fur." Lacey shut her laptop and faced her cousin. "In case you forgot, my fur is the same color as an Idaho Potato. And I'm not skipping out for Peter, we are still friends. I always keep my promises and I promised to watch the kids tonight." She ended on a reassuring note, "I'll go next time. I promise."

        Lacey's mother chuckled and kissed her forehead. "Te amo Mija. Lock up the house for us, yeah." Claire shrugged her shoulders, muttering, "I know you're just going to binge-watch the newest season of Westworld without me." Lacey grinned at her cousin. She waved goodbye to her family. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and both of her parents shuffled into their vehicles with the same eagerness as a kid waking up on Christmas morning.

        Lacey lingered on the porch swing long after her family left. The soft sea breeze brushed against her skin. Crying gulls searched for food near the vacant beach. Large waves crashed against the sandbank, leaving behind a trail of foamy bubbles as they retreated. Her cousins played with their toys. She enjoyed the moment of bliss. Pastel shades of orange, pink, purple, and blue colored the sky. She returned to her favorite spot on the porch swing once all of the children were fast asleep. A teen girl walked her French bulldog. The chunky dog stopped near her mailbox, examined whether or not it was worth marking, then lifted his leg. Lacey growled under her breath and the dog went into a fearful frenzy. The girl nearly fell over when the dog pulled urgently. Lacey smirked, smart doggo.

        She curled up and inhaled. Every scent painted an abstract image in her mind. Somewhere in the faraway parking lot a soft vanilla fragrance, probably the remnants of some child's forgotten ice-cream cone, intermixed with the harsh scent of car oil and hot pavement. For Lacey, the hardest part of having such an acute sense of smell was sorting out the good smells from the bad. But underneath the thick jumble of funky smells were the luscious scents of nature, especially the sweet scent of the golden poppies that decorated their front yard. But all good things come to an end. A sudden terror washed over her when she heard the sound of rapid gunfire in the distance.