Mongrel [bxb] | Bad Moon Book III

Chapter 30: Mongrel

He'd named her Dahlia.

Raven wasn't around to give him her real name, if she ever had one. Dahlia, Matt decided. Like the flower.

She consumed him, day by day and night by night. He dreamed of dark forest, split apart by fast, cold rivers and encompassed by high-flying eagles. He dreamed of tearing bark from trees and eating the bugs beneath, of dancing circles around young elk just to give them a fright. He dreamed of hard wind and fresh fish, and sometimes he dreamed of Bailey.

And when he woke from those dreams, more often than not, Matt would check his phone to an empty call-log and a neglected voice mail. And more often than not, he'd call up every burger joint he could find in Southern Idaho and ask for a Bailey Walters. And when they'd tell him no such person existed, he'd ache for the cell phone he'd so foolishly left in his father's truck, moments before it exploded. The one with his number still on the call log.

For six months, Matt slept with his phone in his hand on the off-chance it might ring him awake one night.

It never did.

January peeled around at a disorienting speed, the mornings bitter and the roads slick with ice. Matt's used Toyota hated the chill, its breaks grabbing at every stop sign and four-way-stop on the way to the old empty church by Sam Park. Jack sat in the seat beside him, flipping a coin between his fingers. This way, that way, this way, the next.

"Gimme ten-zero."

"Use caution," Matt complied.

"Don't just mean with people. Buildin's too, dangerous situations—"

"I know, Dad."

Jack flipped the coin again. "Ten-ten."

"Fight."

"Ten-fifteen."

"Burglary. Dad, I got it. I know 'em all, alright?"

Jack leaned his head back against the passenger seat, his hair slicked with gel and combed ten times over. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but bit his tongue—only to release it a breath later.

"Just—don't go nowhere on your own, alright? You stay with your partner."

"It's field-training, Dad. I can't do shit on my own. That's kinda the point."

Matt pulled into the church parking lot, easing past old women in large hats and rearing slowly near the door.

"You got money for the bus?" Matt asked, watching the sweat his hands left on the leather of the steering wheel. Eye-contact had always been a challenge with Jack, but more so lately than ever. He'd been a vulnerable man since the fire. There were things behind his eyes that Matt wasn't used to—feelings and thoughts that hadn't been there before.

Jack too, seemed to seek anything but Matt's eyes. "Got cash, yeah."

There was silence. Then rustling as Jack released his seatbelt and reached for the door.

Matt felt the engine shiver beneath his hands, finally finding his father's face in the ice-warm morning sun. And as he opened his mouth to speak, Jack broke first word.

"Son," he said, eyeing the tiny coin in his hand. Again he went quiet. The engine roared in idle, and Jack reached over for Matt's hand, depositing the coin into his palm. "Proud of ya'. Real proud."

Matt's face burned. He turned the coin over in his fingers, watching the tiny five shimmer in the center of a golden triangle. The hatchback rocked as Jack climbed out.

"Wait—don't you need this?" Matt asked.

Jack gave him a grin. A smile unlike himself.

"Nah. Get a new one today. Six months." And as he went to shut the door, Matt felt the smooth golden piece beneath his thumb.