Hunter's Alpha (gxg) ✓

6. Begging

That night, I dream of my mother.

She is ripped out of bed by masked strangers, flailing, begging for help through the hands they shove over her mouth.

Her wide, frightened eyes meet mine.

Please, Jude.

I am standing in the corner of the bedroom. Incapable of moving.

Mom! Mom! I want to scream.

Her nose is bleeding. Bright red droplets splatter over the pillow.

They force her to sit down at her desk. To write the note that says Don't look for me. I love you. Mom.

With shaking hands, my mother scribbles it out. They set it on the pillow.

Jude . . .

They pull a mask over her head, and the world goes black.

Before I moved to California, the thing I hated most in the world―and I doubt you'll believe me―was dogs.

In all honesty, it's the only thing I remember of my life before the accident.

My hatred of dogs.

I don't know where it came from, but all I can remember is my mother and father muttering, Damn mutts. The sound of howling, late at night. And a blue-eyed Alaskan malamute named Astrid.

That's all I have any memory of―my life before the crash. Hating dogs with no real reason.

Well―that's not entirely true. The bite-shaped scar on my wrist speaks to that.

But it's all I can think of now, as I walk through the city and hear the sound of barking. Downtown New Orleans is something of a wonder―there is a festival on the horizon. Someone must be preparing for a new parade, because banners and purple silk is littered all over the streets.

I'm trying to find my way back.

Stupid, I know.

I was drugged and it was the middle of the night―when they let me go, I left in the first direction I could. If that girl with the blonde hair and blue eyes hadn't held me up, I might have just fallen asleep right then and there. To hell with the nightly crime.

All I can remember, as I retrace my steps, are what I saw on the opposite street of the apartment building. A florist. A cafe. And something else I can't remember . . .

This is hopeless.

Around me, the city is filled with the noise and chatter of everyday life. Nearby, a woman walks in clipping high heels, her white pantsuit remarkably sleek. A mother argues, pulling along her two children whose faces are smeared with ice cream. An old man is sitting on a bench with a newspaper out in front of him, but he's looking at a group of teenage girls who order from a smoothie shop instead of reading.

None of this compares to California.

Already, I miss my beaches and the ocean and the surfboard shack. I miss the sun and the hot wind and the cars with their windows rolled down.