Dead Meat PT. 7: Epilogue

CONTENT WARNINGS: gore and body horror, mourning/grief, post-traumatic stress, flashbacks, fungi, following someone into a bathroom and cornering them, consumption of a corpse, contemplating eating human remains

---

Betsy sprint down the halls of Greensea General Hospital. Rooms blurred by until she ended outside a room labeled P-5. A heavyset man dozed in a chair nearby; rather, he had been dozing – her approach was neither quiet nor subtle. She came to a stop, and looked him over.

“Oh, hey! You must be Hieu!” she said.

“Yep, that’s me,” he said, and yawned.

Betsy grinned widely.

“Thought so! Damn. You still look about the same as you did in y’all’s wedding photo – you just got less hair now!” she said.

Hieu hummed questioningly, before a squat man with a well-kept mustache appeared beside her, huffing and puffing. He dropped into a chair two down from Hieu.

“Betsy,” Sanderson panted out. “You – haa... – sh-shouldn’t be running around a hospital!”

“Oh, you’re Betsy,” Hieu said to her.

“Yep, that’s me!” she said chummily. “And the little guy outta breath is Dr. Sanderson.”

She smoothed her hair back. Despite all the running, she’d hardly broken a sweat. She peered into the hospital room then: the sight of Annie sleeping peacefully flooded her with relief. Hieu followed her gaze.

“She had to get a couple stitches, and she needs new glasses,” he said. “Otherwise, she’s doing just fine.”

Betsy sniffed in hard. Tears glimmered at the corners of her eyes anyway.

“Thanks,” she said. “I needed one less tragedy to come home to.”

Hieu nodded. “Happy to help! I don’t have that ‘Ankhanum’, or whatever Norm called it, so...if I’d have gone with, I’d probably have gotten myself into trouble. Norm had his hands full enough when we were on the run.”

“I don’t have it, either,” she said. She paused. “I think, anyway. I’m just really fuckin’ stubborn.”

Hieu laughed. “Sounds like it, from what Norman’s told me. Thanks for not setting my husband on fire back in Iron Falls!”

Oblivious to the way Betsy tensed, Hieu glanced at Sanderson.

“Dr. Sanderson, right?” Hieu asked.

Sanderson nodded stiffly. Hieu regarded him silently for a few moments, before yawning once more and settling further into his seat.

“Be glad I’m too tired to give you a piece of my mind,” he said. “Otherwise I’d sock you for biting Norm’s arm off.”

“There’s no need for that,” came Norman’s steady voice.

Comfortable as he’d looked mere moments ago, Hieu was back on his feet. It took everything in Norman’s power to not tip over when Hieu threw his arms around him. Where Norman was tall, Hieu was wide – Norman’s thin frame was eclipsed by his husband’s girth. There was a dopey smile on Norman’s face as he returned the embrace. He propped his chin atop Hieu’s head, and looked to Betsy thoughtfully.

“Well. You got back to the kid. What do you plan to do now?” he asked.

She rubbed her neck uncomfortably. “...I’ve got a lot to explain to her. This is hard enough for me. Can’t even imagine how hard it’s gonna be for her. She already bottles things up.”

She crossed her arms tightly.

“But I don’t wanna stay in that house any longer than I have to,” she continued. “Mom always wanted me to inherit the place, but there’s. Just, too many memories. Good and bad. That’s the shitty thing about livin’ in and outta one house your whole life.”

“We’ll also be re-evaluating our housing now that our ‘benefactor’ has passed on,” Norman said.

He and Hieu took a seat. Norman lazily rubbed circles into Hieu’s palm with his thumb.

“Could always re-evaluate housing together,” Betsy suggested. “If you wanna, that is! I got an open double bed and a front door I could use some help replacing.”

“I’m fine with that. The least we can do is help out,” Hieu said. “Right, Norm?”

Norman only nodded. He’d laid his head on Hieu’s shoulder, his eyelids beginning to droop.

“What about you?” Betsy asked Sanderson.

“Hm? Ah, yes – count me in on helping out,” he said, twiddling his thumbs.

Finally, Betsy stepped into the hospital room. Annie stirred immediately, blinking groggily at first, and then leaping from the bed. Betsy sputtered as she was climbed. Small arms wrapped around as much of her as they could, and Betsy wrapped her own arms around as much of Annie as she could, holding her tight.

“Wow, you got a lotta energy! Guess you’re comin’ home tonight after all, kid!” Betsy said.

“I was- I was s-scared,” Annie wept, “That I wasn’t gonna see-”

She couldn’t finish; tears choked her voice away. Betsy pulled her into another hug.

“Yeah. Um. Kid, I uh-” Betsy felt a swell of tears, and swallowed them back. “I gotta talk to you about somethin’.”

Annie sat on the bed, looking at Betsy expectantly with a face that was snotty and reddening.

“Gramma...” Betsy said, and trailed off. Then, despite herself, she burst into tears.

Annie grew wide-eyed, tears starting anew in her own.

Betsy swallowed hers back long enough to say, “Gramma died.”

Annie looked pointedly at the floor.

“How?” she whispered.

“She-” Betsy started.

Felt the weight of her mother’s body.

“-had a really bad headache, and-”

Felt the warmth of her blood on her face.

“Her brain was bleeding,” she finished, rubbing at her arms. “There was nothing the doctor could do.”

Tears speckled Annie’s hoodie. She reached for Betsy once again, and they embraced.

When they left the room, Annie stared at the three men with uncertainty. Her puffy-eyed gaze passed over each of them carefully: the tall man with the kind smile, the tall man’s heavier husband, and the man who was once her cat, who was also her mom’s friend that visited on birthdays. But—

“Where’re Anni and Clive?” Annie asked.

Her grip on her mom’s hand tightened.

“Did they die, too?!” Annie cried, voice thickening with fresh anguish.

The smell of cooking flesh. Brief. Imagined—

“N-no, no,” Betsy said. She knelt to Annie’s height. “We went our separate ways, is all. They went home. Them stayin’ with us was always gonna be temporary, kid.”

Annie quieted. She turned her eyes to the floor.

“Why didn’t they say goodbye?” she mumbled.

“...I dunno, kid,” Betsy said, truthfully. “I didn’t get a goodbye, either.”

---

Patching up the Winters home was a solemn task.

While Betsy fielded a barrage of questions from neighbors and authorities alike, Norman and Hieu put the front door back up. Betsy soon dragged herself back into the house, setting about tidying away the mess Sanderson made of her mother’s cabinet.

“Here, now, let me take care of that for you,” Sanderson said, fidgeting. “I can do that much.”

“No, I got it,” Betsy said. “Go help out the boys.”

She didn’t have any attachment to the broken fine china; it’d been for show, rarely used. But she paused over photos in busted frames: Annie’s first birthday, her face and hands smeared with cake while Sanderson, seven years younger and with a fuller head of hair, watched on with amusement. Betsy as a glum teenager, holding her dad’s shotgun while he proudly presented a buck she’d hunted.

And her mother as a young woman, standing in front of the house with her own father, Betsy’s grandfather. He’d been the first in the family to inherit the property.

Betsy sniffed back a fresh onslaught of tears.

While he applied tape to the windows alongside Norman and Hieu, Sanderson watched Betsy slide the photos into her pockets. Then she got to her feet with a grunt, and looked over their patch job.

“Looks good! Thanks for the help, guys,” she said. “All I gotta do now is take out the trash, and it’ll be like-”

She paused.

“Like nothing ever happened,” she finished.

She turned a forced grin onto Norman and Hieu.

“Anyway! Annie’s got her own room, and I got the pullout,” she said. “So, you two can have the master bedroom!”

She was soon opening the door to her mother’s bedroom. A gasp of her mother’s perfume passed by her, making her eyes water.

“H-here it is!” she said.

Norman suppressed a grimace. “I-I don’t want to seem ungrateful for your hospitality, but-”

“This’ll be fine. Thanks, Betsy,” Hieu cut in.

The decision made, both Betsy and Norman visibly relaxed.

“Sure thing!” she said. “You lemme know if you need anything, yeah? I’ll just be downstairs!”

With that, she all but ran away, leaving them standing at the threshold of her mother’s room. Norman’s discomfort was palpable as he took in the pink and beige room, its lacy trim and fluffy pillows. Not a speck of dust to be found, nor anything out of its place besides the unmade bed, the blanket tossed aside in an obvious hurry.

Knowing she was dead didn’t ease the feeling he was invading the poor woman’s privacy.

As if reading his mind, Hieu said, “She could not pay me to sleep in that bed.”

Norman chuckled in spite of himself.

“Me neither,” he said. “Floor?”

“Floor.”

Norman pulled the blanket and pillows from the bed with a mumbled ‘excuse me’ to its former occupant, and they settled on the floor together. Uncomfortable as the film of sweat on his skin was, Norman found he was beyond exhausted; he’d shower tomorrow.

A few moments later, Hieu snickered quietly.

“What’s funny?” Norman asked.

“Betsy said she recognized me from our wedding photo,” Hieu replied. “You really showed her that?”

Norman cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. “I was trying to show her a different photo, but I slid that over on accident.”

Hieu cackled. Then, he let out a wistful sigh, wrapping a strand of Norman’s hair around his fingers and letting it slip away. In the few days his husband was away, it’d gotten longer still.

“No wonder you and her are friends,” Hieu mused. “You’re as emotionally constipated as she is.”

Norman flicked Hieu’s forehead, eliciting another laugh.

“Please. Betsy and I barely know each other!”

“I know, I know! You’re just too easy to tease!”

Despite the sticky summer air, they held onto each another as they drift off, and Norman dreamed. He dreamed of distorting faces and spiraling columns of gore and buzzing insects and—

A tickle at his ear.

Norman bolted upright with a yelp.

“Norm?! Norm, what’s wrong?!” Hieu asked in a panicked daze.

Norman whined, clawing at his ears, drawing trace amounts of blood in the process. After a moment, more carefully, he pat his head, stuck his finger in his ear. There was nothing on it, or in it, besides a flyaway hair. He dropped onto the pillow with a groan, the sheen of sweat on him now freezing. He soon felt Hieu running his fingers across his scalp. The sensation was nearly soothing enough to dispel his nervousness.

“You okay?” Hieu asked.

“Forgot to tie my hair back before we laid down,” Norman said breathlessly, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I really, really need a haircut.”

“Aw,” Hieu said, a pout evident in his voice. “I like it this length.”

“I know. But I— I don’t like it brushing against my ears.”

“I know,” came Hieu’s reply, and a gentle kiss on his temple.

---

Betsy woke from a dreamless sleep to a nudge at her shoulder. She rolled over coming face-to-face with Annie. Her eyes were visibly puffy in the light cast by the TV.

“What’s up, kid?” Betsy asked.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

Betsy lifted her arm. Annie curled up next to her.

“I had a bad dream,” Annie whispered. “About Gramma.”

Betsy held her closer.

What sleep came would be short-lived; she stirred an hour later with a heavy heart – and a fuller bladder. Betsy carefully freed herself from Annie’s clinging arms, and went upstairs. When she reached the bathroom, the light was already on, the door cracked ever so slightly. Through that gap, she could see the sink, covered in heaps of dark hair.

Betsy’s heart swelled, and she threw open the door.

Norman let out a strangled gasp.

Betsy’s eyes darted between the pile of hair and scissors he was holding. She threw up her hands.

“Sorry, sorry!” she said.

“No, no, I’m the one who-” he sputtered. “It’s your bathroom-!”

He swept the trimmings into the trash and stepped out. She did her business, and leaned out of the bathroom; he stood nearby with an awkward air about him, hair so choppy and half-done she nearly laughed.

“Need some help?” she asked.

Norman’s brows rose with interest. He positioned himself in front of the mirror, and she set to work.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Sure thing,” she said. “You don’t have eyes in the back of your head, after all. Want it like you had it back in Iron Falls?”

He opened his mouth to disagree with the eyes comment – and promptly shut it again. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

Betsy snipped away in silence for a time.

“You’re really up at this odd hour just to cut your hair?” she eventually asked.

“Yeah. It grows so fast, it’s hard to keep up with. Been driving me crazy,” Norman replied.

He shifted uncomfortably.

“...Feels strange, to still be here,” he mumbled. “Didn’t think I’d make it out of the department alive.”

“Yeah. Me, neither,” she said.

He chewed at his lip with increasingly pointed teeth.

“Look, I’m really sorry about your mother,” he said.

The snipping of scissors paused.

He chuckled anxiously. “If I hadn’t just stormed in – I mean, I didn’t know that was a decoy, and-”

“Stop.”

Betsy’s voice was firm to the point he quieted. The snipping resumed.

“Can’t take it back,” she said. “’Sides. You got some brass balls, waltzin’ in and lightin’ her up like that. You didn’t even hesitate! Color me impressed. You owe me a can of hairspray, though.”

“Um. Thanks,” he said. “For. A lot, but. Especially for putting Hieu and I up. We’ll be on our way as soon as possible.”

Betsy restrained a snort.

“C’mon, man. Y’all don’t have to rush on outta here,” she said.

She gestured for him to turn around, and she clipped his bangs an even length. He nodded approvingly into the mirror. Neat and trim. Just the way he liked it.

“Thanks, yet again,” he said. “I’ll, uh, clean up in here. It’s the least I can do.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” she said. She started gathering up the hair. Her half-smile faltered. “I, uh, got pretty used to tidyin’ the boys’ hair up. No matter how hard they tried to clean it up, we’d still find it all over the house.”

Norman stood firm nonetheless. “No way. What kind of guest would I be if I expected the hostess to clean up my mess?”

Their efforts combined, the bathroom became as hair-free as it was going to get. Betsy flicked off the bathroom light and headed back downstairs.

“Good night, Betsy,” Norman said.

She paused mid-stair, looking over her shoulder at him. Even in the dark, she could see he was studying her carefully, brows knit in concern. Betsy mustered a tired smile.

“’Night, Norman,” she said.

---

“Holy fuck,” Betsy said, voice muffled by her face mask. “It’s like a jungle down here! The hell did you guys do?!”

“I had nothing to do with this,” Norman said curtly. “This place already looked like a slaughterhouse when I got here.”

He surveyed the overgrown basement with a distinct lack of surprise, or discomfort. It was carpeted nearly floor to ceiling in that red mold: some fluffy, some slimy, all hazardous – for some, anyway.

Betsy puffed out a sigh.

“This is gonna take forever,” she muttered.

It didn’t take forever, but it did take the better part of a week to de-fungus the basement, and a hell of a lot of elbow grease between the four adults with all the scrubbing-and-dubbing that needed done, particularly from Norman and Sanderson; they were the only ones able to tolerate the red mold without protective gear.

Though inspired by Betsy’s retelling of events in the department’s garden, Sanderson would be disappointed to find he wasn’t able to manipulate the fungus like Mina the reddened greenery. Harsh chemicals proved effective enough in getting rid of the stuff instead.

But, not before he tucked a particularly lively clump into a jar, for…later examination.

Sanderson sat now on a positively massive pet bed he’d come to favor during his time as a domestic feline, in the clean, nearly empty basement. Much of the Winters’ belongings were contaminated beyond saving, resulting in decades of accumulated supplies and possessions being disposed of in a fire pit Betsy set up in the backyard.

His recorder had been among the items tossed in; he’d miserably watched until the well-worn Hassen Communications logo on its side charred. He could always get a new one.

For now, he pursued a new format, of the analog sort. He’d started a book – if scattered notes stapled together qualified as such. It’d be part of his life’s work to author the first encyclopedia on the Ankhanum.

Sanderson put aside his notes to attend to his dinner: chili, bear meat withheld. Afterward, he dropped a piece of stewed tomato into the jar. It was devoured in no time at all by the eager, growing mold. Should he cultivate it carefully enough, perhaps he could end up with a lifetime supply of blood – fresh blood, naturally.

His cat-like ears quirked at a creak from the stairs.

Annie peered down at him with an expression he found difficult to read. Her new square-framed glasses gave her a studious look. It occurred to him then he hadn’t said so much as a word to her since she’d been discharged from the hospital; tidying up and sorting out his affairs wholly occupied his mind these days.

“Hello, Annie. Need something?” Sanderson asked.

“You’re my mom’s friend that visited on my birthday, aren’t you? Mr. Sanderson, right?” she asked.

He blinked in surprise.

“You remember me? What a great memory you have,” he said. “I haven’t stopped by for the better part of two years!”

“I kinda do,” she admitted. “I remember your mustache. And that you’d bring me books about animals when you came to see mom. I liked them.”

Annie shuffled down a few steps, eyeing the jar in his lap.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

Sanderson held it closer to himself.

“Only some mold,” he said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “I’ve taken up an interest in mycology, you see!”

She cocked her head at him. “What’s that?”

“The study of fungi! Er, mushrooms, and other such things!”

“Oh. Cool. Are you gonna go back to being my cat?”

His lips peeled back in a fanged grimace, cat-like ears flattening with shame.

“I’m afraid those days are long over,” he said. “But, perhaps your mom will get you a real cat after you move! Real cats are far better than I could hope to be. And you can pet a real cat! Wouldn’t that be nice?”

She nodded, brightening somewhat.

“Yeah, that would be,” Annie said. “And, um, thanks for trying to help when that weird lady scratched me. Even if you didn’t do a good job.”

Unexpectedly even to himself, Sanderson burst into laughter at that. Mina had been right about one thing: Annie really did evoke her mom.

---

Months later, Betsy peered around the space that used to be her mother’s room. Stripped of its frills, dusty rose accents and long-lived furniture, it was another empty room in an increasingly empty house. Her mother’s possessions were all she had of her, with burial and cremation off the table. The search team never found the body.

Sanderson stuck his sweaty face into the doorway.

“We’re finished with Annie’s room,” he said.

Betsy didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him.

“Betsy? Are you ready to go?” he asked, louder this time.

Betsy blinked hard, dropping back into herself like a ton of bricks. She sniffled back tears.

“Um. Yeah,” she said, and took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

She took one last look around.

And she closed the door.

It was sunset by the time Norman was satisfied with the arrangement of the cargo in the moving van.

“Right, that’s it, then,” he said. “Let’s get moving!”

Betsy grinned sidelong at him. “Bet you’re glad you’ll finally be rid of me!”

“Oh, stop,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Where would I even be without you?”

She smiled, more sincerely now, and they secured the shutter on the van together.

“Got a big family back in San Jose?” she asked. “When you called your mom, all I heard was laughin’ and hollerin’.”

“Big enough,” he replied. “My mother, my sisters, their partners and a kid each - Hieu and I’ll be joining them until we get back on our feet again.”

Betsy felt a tug at her side; Annie stared up at her with a pinched, pensive expression.

“Norman an’ Hieu are going home, too?” she asked forlornly.

“Yep, once we get moved in, kid,” Betsy said.

Norman chuckled warmly and knelt next to Annie.

“Don’t you worry,” he said. “Once we’re all settled in at our new places, your mom can give us a call.”

“Lots of calls,” Annie corrected.

He chuckled again. “Right, lots of calls!”

Norman got behind the wheel of the moving van, and Hieu readied himself to follow in his work van. Betsy, Sanderson and Annie all squeezed into Sanderson’s convertible, and they drove onward – to Iron Falls. They passed by that weathered billboard at the bus stop.

WELCOME TO GREENSEA, it read. ENJOY YOUR STAY.

Betsy glanced into the rear view mirror. Annie was sprawled across the backseat, already dozing. A reprieve from the nervous ball of energy she’d been all day.

“So. How are you holding up?” Sanderson asked.

Betsy blinked in surprise. She glanced over at him; he didn’t return her gaze, focused on the road before him as he drove.

“Well, we’re movin’, aren’t we?” she asked.

He shook his head patiently. “Not that. You know what I mean.”

She rubbed at the back of her neck.

“C’mon. You don’t have to worry about me, Herbert,” she said. “I know this kinda thing isn’t your specialty.”

“It’s not, but I’m asking anyway.”

She pursed her lips, looking out the passenger window.

“It’s rough. Y’know. For the kid. Hard to believe mom’s really gone sometimes,” she said. Then, she cleared her throat loudly. “What about you? You haven’t talked about any of this, either.”

He rose a brow, a small smile crossing his lips.

“Oh, I’ve talked plenty. Just not to you. That’s what my recorder was for.”

“And then you torched it.”

“It was a Hassen Communications product; I don’t care to be reminded any further of that devil woman. At the very least I kept my tapes, and I can always get a new one.”

She nodded. Golden evening light illuminated the forest on either side of the vehicle, mingling with that evergreen landscape.

“What do you think they’re gonna do with the company now that Hassen’s dead?” Betsy asked.

He frowned, expression wrinkling into genuine puzzlement.

“I’ve been wondering that, too,” he replied. “But I knew nothing about the woman that thing was pretending to be. If she had no heirs or beneficiaries, likely what’s left of her estate will be probated.”

“Ha, yeah, guess she wouldn’t have bothered with a will if she assumed she was gonna be in power forever, huh?”

Sanderson smiled wryly at that. “I certainly couldn’t say for sure if she had one or not - if nothing else, I imagine it’ll be a feast for the company’s shareholders! But if this was a just world, it’s worth would be divvied up between the families who lost someone to her machinations. God only knows how many are widowed and orphaned because of her ‘research’.”

Betsy squinted sidelong at him.

“If this was a ‘just world’, you’d be behind bars for killin’ two people and assaulting several others,” she said flatly.

There was a beat of silence. He began to sputter, glancing between her and the road, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Be serious now!” he exclaimed. “What good would I be to you locked up?!” Then, under his breath, “We’re even now, anyway.”

“I heard that. Anyway, relax. I’m not turnin’ you in. You know I hate cops.”

He nodded, dabbing his sleeve against his forehead.

“Perhaps you and I could set up a fund for the families, then?” he suggested. “For Camp 12, at least.”

She looked to him skeptically. “You partially funded my move and got me a business permit. How well off are you?”

“Not as well off as you’re thinking. But I have little use for every last cent to my name when I plan on living transiently for a time.”

“Huh. Didn’t take you for the kind of guy to rough it.”

“Well, I learned how to do so from a woman who was very good at staying alive in dire straits.”

In spite of herself, Betsy smiled.

“Man, shut up. You know I hate mushy stuff,” she said. “The hell do you wanna be a drifter for, anyway?”

“I’ll be seeking out the Ankhanum! For research purposes, of course. But I’ll be sure to visit now and then.”

She rolled her eyes. “Better ring me up instead of just droppin’ in.”

The first comfortable silence they’d shared in a long time fell between them. Betsy watched the changing landscape; forests became farmland and towns settling down for the night glittered in the distance. Those eventually were swallowed up by the radiantly colored cliffs.

“Betsy, I’ve been meaning to ask...” Sanderson said. “You’ve hardly mentioned Ankhanum since we returned to Greensea. Why is that?”

A coldness gripped her heart. But she shrugged as nonchalantly as she could.

“I still don’t really know how I feel about them,” she said. “I believe we were friends, in the end. Everything they did for me, especially what they didn’t have to, proved that much.”

She shook her head then.

“But I’m not stupid. They lied, they hit shit. Manipulated me to get what they wanted,” she continued. “...But I think we had that in common, because I did it to them, too. They made this big show of how dangerous and different they are from people, then went ahead and did stupid people things anyway.”

She scratched the back of her neck, the hairs there standing up.

“I appreciated my time with them. If they’re still around, I hope they appreciated their time with me, too,” she finished.

Silence settled over them again, leaving only the rumble of the engine and the whoosh of the world blazing by.

“I saw the way it looked at me. The creature they became,” she mumbled, her voice so low Sanderson barely heard. Her fists were clenched in her lap. “The way it hesitated before it burrowed off to who knows where.”

She sniffed and thumped her leg with her palms.

“All right! I’ve thought about enough sad shit for one day,” she said. “Let’s see what’s on the radio!”

As she turned the dial through the stations, Sanderson couldn’t help but notice her eyes were wet with tears.

---

Betsy gazed up at her home-to-be: a cute yellow brick building, sandwiched between a family-owned grocer and a steakhouse. Above the cafe space on the first floor was a two-bed apartment. It was just the right size for her and Annie.

Whether either of them liked it or not, the year 2000 promised to be a new beginning: that of a new millennium, and a new home in a new city.

In the wee hours of the morning, Sanderson snoozed away on the loveseat, and Norman and Hieu lay dead asleep on the pullout. The floor was covered in lengths of bubble wrap, cardboard, beer cans and crumpled snack bags.

Annie sat in her new bedroom. It was bigger than her room at the house, making its empty walls and her unpacked boxes of belongings all the more intimidating.

A knock at her door startled her.

“Y-yeah?” Annie called.

Betsy poked her head in.

“Saw your light was still on. You okay, kid?” she asked.

Annie nodded, but remained silent. Betsy eased into the room and sat on the foot of the bed. She cringed at the springs groaning beneath her weight; she herself had slept on this mattress growing up. It was looking, and sounding, its age.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” Betsy asked.

“We’re here. In the new house,” Annie said flatly.

“Yeah. Things are gonna be different.”

Annie looked up; her eyes were glossy with tears.

“I miss Gramma,” she squeaked. “I wish she could’ve moved here with us.”

Betsy blinked back sudden tears of her own.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do, too,” she said.

Annie hugged Betsy, burying her head into her chest. Betsy wrapped her arms around Annie and held her tight.

They stayed like that for a long time.

---

Today was the big day: The Bear’s Claw was ready to open.

After Norman and Hieu departed with Betsy’s number in their pocket and a spring in their steps, Betsy herself buzzed around the cafe with an anxious energy, wiping down tables and counters. Pots of coffee were on standby, menus spread out on tables. A handful of bright-eyed cooks and waitresses stood at the ready.

Betsy stepped outside, Sanderson not far behind her with his packed bags and positively stuffed notebooks of musings.

“Today’s a big day for you, too, huh?” Betsy asked him.

“It certainly is!” he said, chest puffed pridefully. “I’ve been eager to get back to my roots!”

They loaded his things into the trunk of his convertible. Briefly, he took inventory, nudging through the rolling suitcases and through Betsy’s bag - now his bag. He paused. Searched again. Wiped his brow free of sweat. His searching became frenzied, claws nearly ripping through the fabric.

The jar. Where had that blasted jar gone?!

Betsy cocked her head at him. “...What are you forgetting now? I know you packed your tea stuff, if that’s what you’re all frantic about. I saw you pack it this morning.”

His mouth gaped open as he blubbered for words. But he couldn’t just tell her what he’d been deliberately hiding from her, so, instead, he nodded.

“Oh, yes, you’re right!” he lied. “Silly me. Still, best to double check, right?!”

Betsy watched him continue to rifle through his bags before crossing her arms impatiently.

“You’re sure you packed everything?” she asked. “If you need to check the apartment before you go, I can give you the key. I’d help ya look, but I got a cafe to open.”

Sanderson sighed through his nose in evident defeat, before regarding her with a kindly smile.

“You do, don’t you? I’m happy for you,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll see you around?”

“You certainly will!”

With a wave, Sanderson drove off to wherever. When he was out of sight, Betsy turned the sign on the door: The Bear's Claw was OPEN for business.

Above, Annie retreated from her bedroom window.

She’d kept herself busy in the weeks after the move; the walls of her new bedroom were quickly becoming coated in her artwork (bugs, animals and misshapen people, oh my!). She knelt beside her bed, and carefully pushed Sanderson’s jar of mouthy red mushrooms further underneath.

If Mr. Sanderson could feed it his gross leftovers, she could, too.

---

Mina Barnes, unbelievably, woke up.

Though, by the spongy wetness surrounding her, and the gelatinous consistency of the ‘ground’ she was on, she may as well have still been dreaming. She pushed against those moist walls with a sound of disgust, sliding through as quickly as she could, body slick with fluids she hoped to never identify. Her hands met a sphincter of some persuasion. Her stomach turned at the sensation of it unfurling open beneath her palms. In the space beyond was a dull, hot light.

Holding her breath, she slid through it into an open, fleshy space. The walls were thin here. What looked to be sunlight shone a vein-laden red through the membranes, like closing her eyes on a particularly sunny day. Everything pulsated with a gentle rhythm. Far off, a thumping, in time with her own heartbeat. Half-merged into those walls were the shapes of—

Mina covered her mouth against a gag.

The shapes of her colleagues. Eugene, Vera, and so on.

However, as opposed to the half-digested terror they’d underwent, they were curled up, looking disconcertingly peaceful, as if they were simply asleep. Gone were any light-colored tresses of hair on the heads of those who had them; it’d gone dark, and wilder on the already dark-haired.

Mina held her hand in front of Eugene’s nose. Her wet fingers grew colder; he was breathing. Alive. And somehow, actually sleeping.

A mass shifted nearby, and gradually took shape: meaty figures resembling the men that’d been with Betsy that night. Mina recoiled at the sight.

“You,” she whispered. “I thought you were dead.”

“Part of these ones died,” they said in tandem, and burbled out a chuckle. “We are what is left of the ones that called themselves ‘Clive’ and ‘Vermeil’.”

The way their laughter mingled made her shiver. The melting figures shambled closer, clinging to one another in an attempt to hold themselves together.

“Where am I?” Mina asked.

“You fell inside these ones,” they breathed. “Now you are part of us.”

Mina slumped forward as it all came rushing back to her: they’d been in the bowels of the department, overlooking what remained of ‘Eleanor’. The last thing she’d seen was Sanderson snarling above her. She’d chased her anger until it'd literally consumed her, and both Betsy and Sanderson were alive, well, and not in the guts of the creature that’d turned her and everyone else at camp inside out.

Mina jolted as heat engulfed her arms, her legs. She ripped herself free of the cascade of flesh she’d been sinking into. Her dark hair fluttered into her field of view; her chestnut locks were no more.

“No. NO!” she cried. “I don’t want this! I don’t want to disappear!”

She got to her feet.

"I will NOT disappear," she growled.

A deep chuckling wriggled the walls around her and the figure reformed once more: this time, its face was the one it wore when it’d first come to be in the cage.

"One so headstrong as you need not worry about disappearing," it wheezed through grinning teeth.

It melted away into the floor. Mina looked around nervously. A hot breath on her shoulder nearly sent her tumbling again as its shape emerged from the fatty wall behind her, far more complete now.

"If you’re going to consume me, I’m not going down without a fight!" she screamed.

Ankhanum waved its hand nonchalantly.

"No need," it said. "This one has more important things to do, places to be. Like going home to Betsy!"

The mere mention of Betsy sent a nauseating ripple of anger through her that perked the hair on her arms. That came rushing back to her as well, though they weren’t her memories, per say: the centipede abandoning Betsy, in her most vulnerable hour.

“Why didn’t you just stay with her, then?” Mina asked, almost coyly.

“Leaving seemed like a...good idea at the time,” Ankhanum reluctantly admitted. “All the harm we’d done. Caused. Betsy has been irreversibly changed by our presence in her life.”

Mina scoffed. “Why the change of heart? Guilt?”

“Close as these ones get to it, perhaps,” it said. “But we’ve since slept on it, and determined the only way to make amends with Betsy is to return to her. She will give these ones a second chance, surely!”

Mina rolled her eyes.

“Whatever,” she muttered. “What’s so fucking special about her, anyway?”

"Why not come with us, and find out?" it asked.

It held out its hands to her. Skin dripped from its fingers like wax. She drew back against the glowing membranes around them.

“Ugh. No,” she said. “I don’t want anything to with you, and I especially don’t want anything to do with her! All this shit is her fault, anyway!”

“You seem rather sure of that,” it said.

“...Everywhere I went, Betsy was at the epicenter,” Mina said quietly. “When I first got to camp. When I ate that chili. When you broke my wrists.”

She swallowed a lump in her throat. Her lips were trembling.

“And it was all downhill from there!” she nearly squeaked out. “There has to be a reason for all this! Has to be someone behind it! I-I just wanted this to be good for me, for fucking once! Even Eleanor was taken with Betsy in the end.”

Though its expression remained unmoved, Ankhanum reached out, gently wiping away her tears. When Mina jerked her head away, it chuckled.

“Young one, you are not special. Truthfully? Neither is Betsy,” it said. “These events were orchestrated long before you were even thought of. Had this not happened to you, it would have to another, if it hasn’t before. ‘Eleanor’ wanted these ones to approach the settlements she's been setting up."

It cocked its head at her.

“The fact these ones were consumed once we did was as much of a surprise to you as it was to us,” it continued. "I don't believe bears are the typical diet of humans in that region."

Mina searched its face for any readable emotion. But she saw only her exhausted reflection in its wide eyes; exhaustion she’d seen mirrored in Betsy. She hugged herself, averting her gaze.

“Whatever,” she muttered. “But there’s nothing you could tell me that’d make me okay with Dr. Sanderson.” Under her breath, she added, “That little creep.”

Ankhanum cackle-chuckled.

“These ones are not friends of the ‘good’ doctor, either,” it crooned.

It held out its blood-slicked hands to her once more.

“Last chance. Mina is still welcome to come with these ones!” it said.

She stared at them for a time, and hesitantly reached out – only to slap them away.

“No. I’ll find my own way out of here,” she said.

“Suit yourself. You may remain here as long as you like,” Ankhanum said. “This one will be going now.”

Mina glowered, her mouth set in a tight, unyielding line. But she said nothing more as she peered around at her slumbering colleagues. Cautiously, she pushed at Eugene’s slimy shoulder. When he stirred, she almost smiled.

Ankhanum never saw it – he stared eagerly instead at the warm light filtering through the membranes. He pressed his palms against the wall of flesh, and began to burrow.

---

He hit solid ground with an unflattering wet noise.

Ankhanum rolled about in reddening grass until he was sat up. The leggy mass he’d fallen from loomed over him, fondness in its large, red-ringed eyes. Ankhanum whistled in admiration.

“What a bountiful harvest Tehhaz’s body yielded!” he said. “There will be more of us in the world yet, once again!”

The centipede bowed its head, and receded into the hole it’d burrowed from. Ankhanum waved goodbye until he no longer felt the tremors, and he got to his feet, looking all around him.

Sparse woodland, changing color as fall set in. It'd been early summer when he'd been conscious last.

...How long had he been dormant?

In the distance, the smell of gasoline. Automobiles.

He wobbled toward the scent on his newly formed legs, the bones within still taking shape. His stride steadied the closer he got to the highway. Beyond the guardrail was an expanse of pavement, on which vehicles of all shapes and sizes flew by. He followed it for a time, aware of the attention his nude form was receiving from passing cars and refusing to care.

He reached a route marker: 36. Whatever that meant in relation to his position. He eyed the passing traffic. Headed his way was a large truck with an occupant focused wholly on what lay ahead.

Smirking, Ankhanum darted into the road.

The massive grill was mere inches from him by the time the vehicle came to a complete stop. Swearing, the driver got out.

“Lady, are you fucking nuts?! I could’ve-” the trucker started.

The words died on his lips.

“Whoa. Are you okay there?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

Ankhanum cocked his head at the man’s change in demeanor, before looking down at himself: not only was he nude and drenched in an assortment of fluids, his shape leaned chubbier, distinct breasts sagging from his chest. Those were new. Ankhanum let out a laugh.

“Sunbathing! You know how it is,” he said.

The trucker blinked in bewilderment. “No, I don’t. Do you, uh – y’know, I got a change of clothes in my cab...”

“This one would like that!” Ankhanum exclaimed. “Could I get a ride, too?!”

The trucker wouldn’t get the chance to object; Ankhanum was already climbing into the passenger’s seat. The trucker got in next to him, and gestured to an overfull suitcase on the floor on Ankhanum’s side. Ankhanum dug through it. From it he pulled a flannel, a pair of jeans that’d seen better days and some well-worn slippers. They’d suffice.

“So where’s an odd duck like you headed?” the trucker asked hesitantly.

“Greensea!” Ankhanum proclaimed, buttoning up the flannel.

“Greensea? ...Well, I can get ya most of the way there if you don’t cause me no trouble,” he said. “I’m headed out that way, anyway.”

---

Ankhanum was dropped at a truck stop come nightfall.

“You gonna be okay from here, stranger?” the trucker asked.

Ankhanum nodded up at him. “All good!”

The trucker gave him a thumbs up.

"However you plan on getting the rest of the way there, keep following 36 east. You'll start seeing signs for the exit to Greensea," he said.

"Thank you, kind sir! You've been a great help!" Ankhanum said, and meant it.

The truck roared off, and Ankhanum eyed the amenities: gas station, an array of diners, and a payphone. Not that the latter would do him any good; he’d never learned Betsy’s number. Tantalizing as the diners smelled, he had no money. But the gas station would be easy to steal from. Colorful rows of snacks and prepared food items greet him inside, a sight he'd become accustomed to in this era of plentiful options and brands.

He grabbed at whatever he thought he'd be able to hide away, including an impressively large sub sandwich, the very last one in the case. He unwrapped its plastic as discretely as he could, unbuttoning his flannel-

Another patron shoved past Ankhanum roughly. The sandwich sailed from his groping hands and splat on the floor.

Ankhanum let out a miserable sound, holding his hands out to it as if he could simply will the sandwich to defy gravity and return to his grasp. It couldn't, and so wouldn’t. His shoulders slumped.

Whether or not it was still edible wasn't the issue anymore, no, not at all; rather, it was the audacity of the BASTARD that’d pushed him. He looked about for the culprit. A large figure in a windbreaker and tall boots, disappearing into the bathroom.

Wide-eyed, Ankhanum followed.

The dingy bathroom had two urinals and two stalls, and Bastard was positioned at one of the former. Ankhanum slid up to the urinal beside him.

"Hey, buddy! Could I hitch a ride with you?!" Ankhanum asked.

The man sputtered uncomfortably, nearly snagging himself zipping his fly.

"The hell? No way, man," he said gruffly. "I don't even have a spare helmet."

Ankhanum's smile faded.

"It’s the least you could do after you knocked my dinner onto the floor back there," he said, stepping closer.

“And risk you falling and cracking your skull open on the highway? No way,” the man said. "Fuckin' weirdo, followin' me into the bathroom-"

He tried to fling the door open. Ankhanum slammed his hand against it, holding it closed.

"The integrity of my skull should be the least of your worries at the moment," he said in a low voice. “You OWE me!”

“I don’t owe you anything, you freak!”

With a grunt, Bastard swung on him. Ankhanum's jaw split, catching the man's fist in his teeth. The mass consumed the rest of his arm and clamped onto his head. Bastard wouldn’t let out so much as a whine before a deep CRUNCH signified his end. Ankhanum spat him out and ripped into the man's pockets: the keys to a vehicle of some kind, and a wallet. Ankhanum thumbed through it and grinned at the sight of cash. Among it, an ID – the perfect reference for molding his features to match the man he’d just killed.

He looked the body over.

Nice windbreaker jacket. Really nice boots. So nice, in fact, Ankhanum was wearing them after he finished up his replacement dinner. His figure now better filled out the garments he'd inherited, and his tongue and mouth tingled with delight. It’d been far too long since he’d last tasted human.

He grabbed snacks for the road and checked out. He handed over the cash with far too much enthusiasm (Betsy would be pleased he hadn't stolen them, after all!) and departed.

A handsome motorcycle with cherry red trim and accompanying helmet awaited its new driver outside.

Ankhanum ran his hands along it with interest; while he was familiar with the operation of an automobile, it'd been some decades, and this was structured closer to a bike with an engine.

He seated the helmet comfortably onto his head, got the motorcycle started, and wheeled it out to the side of the road. He wobbled on it for awhile, trying to get a feel for its weight and jerky movements when he alternated between gas and brake.

Once he got the hang of it, he peeled off into the night.

(What makes you think Betsy’s going to be happy to see us?)

Ankhanum’s grip on the bike tightened.

Clive’s voice, in the back of his mind. Not truly there, nor truly separate from him. A whisper of uncertainty, hidden behind his patent coyness.

(We abandoned her.)

So they had.

It’d seemed a good idea at the time. At least if further disaster visited her doorstep, it wouldn’t be because of them. They’d known it would happen. It was inevitable; their old flames learned the hard way, snuffed out before their times whether by his adversaries...or his insatiable appetite.

What hair he hadn’t stuffed into the helmet blew every which way, allowing the chill of fall-laden wind to tickle his exposed neck, and he thought of Betsy, her burning spirit, and the warm dryness of her palms when they’d touch, dotting the freckles along her arms and shoulders with his lips, how hot she ran when they’d lay together on the pullout on the rare nights Miss Fran and Annie retired early, the feel of her hair when he brushed his fingers through it—

A pinch of jealousy from the part of him that’d called itself Clive; he’d never been close with her. Never allowed himself to be.

(Her death at my hands is all but promised.)

And, oh, they would make it beautiful.

However she wished to be disposed of, they’d comply until no eyes were on them, and they’d steal what remained away! Nothing would go to waste, just the way she liked it; they could sprinkle her ashes onto their meals, maybe take a page out of her book and try his hand at a chili.

Ankhanum licked his lips.

What would a Betsy chili taste like...?

...With any luck, her demise wasn’t imminent. Only inevitable.

He’d be prepared either way.

---

Ankhanum came to a stop beside a familiar, weathered billboard.

WELCOME TO GREENSEA, it still read.

He breathed in the humid, sea-salted air.

Oh, yes.

Nearly home.

He turned down East Wood Street and came to a stop at the house on the very end. Though, gone was the sagging porch and Miss Fran’s rocking chair. The exterior had been repainted a plain white and the porch replaced with a stoop. An opaque curtain hung over the front window, shielding the interior from his prying eyes. His lip curled with uncertainty.

None of this renovation felt particularly like Betsy.

He knocked on the brand new door. A familiar face answered the door, but not the one he expected: a little old woman with a huge cigar squinted up at him.

“Ms. Redfield?” blurted Clive’s voice from his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

Her glare deepened as she studied his features, which shifted until she finally made the connection.

“Ah. Mr. Reeves. The deserter,” she said. “You left me high and dry, you know-!”

“Yes, yes, apologies and all that,” Clive cut in, chewing back a craving for a cigarette as he waved away the smoke. “I’ll ask again: what are you doing here?”

“I live here!” she snapped.

He looked about the property. Surely he hadn’t undershot the house he was really looking for. But here he was, on the right side of the street, right at the very end. He stepped back from the door. The rusting emblem above it still read 618.

“Where is the woman who lived here before? Where is Betsy?” he asked.

Ms. Redfield shrugged. “How should I know?! This place was a bargain, and I wanted to move outta that dusty old bookstore! Now, get! Before I call the cops!”

She slammed the door in his face with a force that’d betray her age.

Mystified, Ankhanum set his sights on the diner.

---

“Betsy moved? When?” Vermeil asked.

“Couple of months ago,” Latisha replied.

He scratched his head in puzzlement. “What? So quickly? How long has this one been gone?”

Latisha looked equally as puzzled.

"I’d say at least a year,” she said.

A year? A whole year he’d been dormant? Vermeil groaned, dragging his hands down his face. He peeked through his fingers at her.

“Did Betsy say where she was going?” he asked.

Latisha shook her head. “All she even told me is she was headin’ north. Close as you two seemed, I’m surprised she didn’t tell ya she was movin’.”

“Things got a bit heated when last her and I spoke,” he mumbled. “So I took off. Stupid of me, in hindsight. I’d hoped to make amends on my return, but it seems she’s moved on.”

He puffed out a breath, and nodded to her.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Latisha,” he said.

He departed the diner, trudging back to his bike. Out of sight, his shape changed again, becoming lanky and uncertain as he rode back toward the bus stop.

There, he lingered.

All this running around, just to meet another dead end.

All his daydreaming and scheming, crashing down around him.

He balanced himself on the seat and crossed his arms in thought.

Maybe Betsy moved to get a fresh start after the loss of Miss Fran. And maybe, just maybe - she wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with them if they’d returned.

...Not that he’d blame her when he’d walked away first.

Whatever the case, they’d finally gone their separate ways.

For now, with Tehhaz silenced, he had no other business to attend to, and plenty of places he wanted to go, things he wanted to see, to do! And there’d be new people to meet.

Better yet, there was a whole new person he could be.

He licked his lips. Excitement bubbled up within him once more.

Oh, yes. He could be anyone he wanted.

When the bus to Iron Falls arrived later that night, he followed.

To his delight, he’d find exactly what he was looking for there.

---

Today, Aidan Winters – formerly known as Annie Winters - turned ten years old.

He combed carefully through the red shock of his hair, pushed up his glasses and ran into the kitchen, where the smell of fruit and oats filled the air. Betsy turned to him, a big grin on her face and an even bigger plate in her hands.

“Mornin’, birthday boy!” she exclaimed.

Aidan dived into his seat, and dug into his mom’s baked oatmeal. Once he was sated, he stuffed his backpack overfull with sketchbooks and pencils, and ran into the cafe.

“I’m goin’ to school, mom!” he called.

Betsy paused mid-stride, mugs of coffee in hand for waiting patrons.

“All right, kid, you be careful now!” she called back.

Aidan charged out the door, and immediately collided with an approaching figure. The weight of his bag was too much; he wheeled backwards, about to fall, until a hand shot out, gripping his wrist and tugging him back onto his feet.

Aidan looked up in bewilderment.

Before him stood a grinning man with short, dark hair, wearing a red silk button-up and meticulously pressed black slacks.

“Shit! Sorry, mister!” Aidan blurted out. “I-I mean-”

The man laughed good-naturedly.

“No worries, young one! You know, you should look both ways next time you come runnin’ out a door like that,” he said. He looked Aidan up and down. “Say, I see you coming and going from here all the time. You must be the owner’s son!”

Aidan squinted at him, but had no time to get a word in edgewise: a brochure was thrust into his hands.

“When you get a chance, could you give that to your mom?!” the man all but demanded. “Thanks a bunch!”

And with a wave, the grinning fellow disappeared into the steakhouse next door, leaving Aidan more confused than before. He looked at what he'd been handed: the steakhouse’s menu, a coupon paper-clipped to the front of it.

Aidan went back into the cafe. When Betsy glanced up from the register, concern dawned on her face at the sight of him, more so at how pinched and pensive he seemed. She’d come to think of that look as an omen.

“You okay, kid?” she asked.

Aidan held out the menu to her.

“Some guy from the place next door wanted me to give you this,” he said.

She cocked a brow and skimmed it: the majority of it was, obviously, meat-based, though there was a pleasing array of appetizers, salads and entrées marked as intended for vegetarians, accompanied by a tantalizing photo of a mushroom steak they’d been getting rave reviews for. The coupon was the typical fare she’d seen in the place’s ads, but sections were overwritten by hand, indicating its value was generous, to say the least – the equivalent of a free family meal.

She eyed the jotted note at the bottom:

Betsy dumped it in the trash behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron with a look of disgust.

“Aw, you’re not gonna take him up on it?!” Aidan asked, crestfallen. “That place always smells so good, though!”

“Nah, I can’t have this. It’s weird enough he asked you to deliver it when he could’ve walked it over himself,” she said. “I gotta nip this in the bud. In the meantime, get yourself to school, okay?”

Aidan pouted, but he relented, readjusting his backpack and scurrying out the door.

When they’d moved in, the steakhouse next door was an underwhelming chain restaurant. Recently, though, the place changed both management and moniker. It’d garnered no small amount of business since, and word of mouth among her own patrons was the place had, in line with it’s strangely bold marketing: ‘STEAK SO GOOD YOU’D KILL TO GET ANOTHER BITE!’

That was all well and good to Betsy; The Bear’s Claw filled its own niche as a cafe and vegetarian hot-spot without much worry of competition, and she knew firsthand it wasn’t easy to get a business off the ground.

No, her problem lie in whatever the hell was up with that sleazy coupon, and so she stepped into Red’s Steakhouse shortly before the lunch rush.

The place was classy enough, with wainscot walls, half wine red and half deep brown wood, a well-stocked and very crowded bar greeting her immediately, with a restaurant space to her left. Behind the bar, visible from where she stood, was a hallway leading to the restrooms, the end of which opened to a comfortable looking lounge, dominated by the pool table in the center of the room.

Betsy strolled up to the bar; it was being attended by a young man matching Aidan’s description. He glanced at her, paused, and broke into a smile.

“Hi, welcome to Red’s! What can I get for-”

“Nothing,” she interrupted. “The name's Betsy Winters, and I’m here to see Red.”

That smile faltered at the curtness in her voice.

“Oh. Are you issuing a complaint, or-?"

“With all due respect, I reckon it’s not your business,” she said. “If Red’s free, I’d like to speak to him.”

The young man's lip curled indignantly.

“You already are,” he said.

It was Betsy’s turn to hesitate. In her mind’s eye, Red was a ten-gallon hat wearer with a huge beard and ruddy cheeks, a ton of chest hair, and a decorative belt buckle bigger than his fist. To her, that was the kind of man that’d manage a steakhouse – a worthy rival in business.

But the Red that went outside with her was soft around the edges, and most certainly someone she could’ve shattered the bones of should she challenge him to an arm wrestling contest.

“No fuckin’ way,” she said, covering up a grin. “Nah, you can’t be Red.”

He smiled also; crooked, yellowed teeth, alarmingly pointed canines. He wiggled his thick brows and looked her up and down in a way that took the smile off her face, a hunger in his eyes as he utterly drank her in.

“That’d be me!” he said. “Have you come to redeem your coupon, Ms. Winters?!”

“Already redeemed it with the trash can,” she said.

That wolfish grin dropped from his face like she’d slapped it off.

“Ah,” was all he said.

She leaned forward.

“For future reference, walk over to my place and talk to me yourself if you need me,” she said. “Don’t make my son do it for you.”

“Of course. Apologies,” he said solemnly. His excitement wasn’t gone for long. “I’ll make up another one and bring it over, then!”

Her shoulders stiffened, cheeks flushing.

“I’d really rather you not,” she said. “Why me, anyway?”

“Why, it’s part of a campaign to drum up fresh business!” he said.

The tension left her body, and she let out a laugh.

“Oh, is that all?!” she said.

Red nodded enthusiastically. “We’re handing out personalized coupons to the locals and other businesses in the area. What with our hours being more or less the same, I haven’t had the time to stop by. So when your son ran into me this morning – literally – I figured I’d just give it to him! Apologies for the confusion.”

“Heh. Okay. You had me goin’ for a second there. I kind of thought- eh, well, in that case, you might wanna rethink your approach. Mine came across a little, uh. Flirty.”

“Oh, no, that was intentional!”

A heavy beat of silence preceded her throwing back her head and just about guffawing.

“Man, get outta here!” she exclaimed. “I’m pushin’ fifty in a few more years. I’m not interested in little boys like you.”

He smiled evenly at her, unphased by her needling choice of words.

“I’m not a man, and I’m older than you, to boot,” he said.

She choked on another laugh. She leaned closer; now she could see the lines around his mouth and under his eyes. Crows feet made themselves at home at their corners, and there was more gray in his hair than she’d noticed at first, and a slight bump of his chest beneath his shirt. He only smiled strangely under her intense inspection. In that moment, she couldn’t shake the feeling they’d met before.

Betsy squinted, resisting the hesitant smile trying to curl her own lips.

“Older? Really. You don’t look it at first glance, Buddy,” she said.

He held out his hand to her.

Instinctively, she reached for it – only for him to take it back and shove it into his shirt, allowing Betsy the quickest glimpse of a sports bra, and producing another menu. She took it cautiously enough to make him laugh.

“What’s the matter? I don’t bite!” he said.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” she said.

She eyed the menu over for the second time that day, an amused, but angry, yet also relieved little smirk on her face.

“I like your catchphrase there,” she said. “‘Steak so good you’ll kill to get another bite.’ Sounds familiar! If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you owe someone some money for that one.”

“Glad you like it!” said Red. “We can sort out the royalties later – you see, sadly, we had to settle for that over ‘Eat our meat or go to Hell!’”

When Betsy burst out laughing, Red’s smile only widened.

Oh, yes.

He was home.

---