Bobby
pushed down at the rising discomfort in his belly as he pulled up to
the old Grey house. It was still where he remembered: six miles past
the Cottontail farmlands, past tangles of pine forests, down a
forgotten single-lane road and next to a long dirt driveway. He
blinked in surprise as he turned off the pavement and rolled up
behind the big pink pastry truck. The house still looked old, but in
a dignified, nostalgic way, unlike the neglected structure he
remembered. The cougar stepped out of his car and onto the porch,
gazing at the restored wood and brick, the shiny, new chains on the
porch swing, the freshly painted, working shutters.
He
remembered the times he and Gideon biked all the way out here for a
little privacy, sneaking away before his father could return. He ran
a paw over the restored doorframe, no longer pitted and crumbling
with rot. He knocked on the door, looking at the old brass
doorknocker. It was lying on Gideon’s dresser the last time he’d seen
it, having fallen off the cracked door.
The
chubby fox answered a moment later, flour dusting his fur, dressed in
a blue button-up shirt and smelling like a country fair.
“Heya,
Bobby,” He greeted, ears tall, eyes bright. “The doorbell works
now, y'know,” he chuckled, and demonstrated with a touch of the
pearly button beside the door. Bobby’s ears pricked at the sonorous
crystal-clear bells that echoed from deeper in the house.
“Oh
wow, you fixed it,” Bobby commented as the bells faded.
“Yep,
fixed a lot o’ stuff,” Gideon nodded. “C'mon in!”
Keep reading