Page 8 of Fool Moon First Aid

Shaking off the feeling, I switch the oven to broil and grab two plates, deciding to share my meal with the spirits. It’s a gesture that feels right, one that Mama would appreciate.

I wish I realized the depths of Mama’s sacrifices sooner, the pain she masked behind her resilient smile. As a child, I was blissfully unaware—a sign, Mama would say, of her success as a parent. The adult me questions the cost of such concealment.

The night drifts by in a blur, marked only by the repeated chime of the stove timer. Dinner is a solitary affair—a plate for me and one for the spirits. College life is a whirlwind of noise and activity, but here, in the quiet of our home, I find a moment of peace. I worked relentlessly to finish grad school a year early, so I should revel in this final year, yet a nagging feeling in my gut whispers that not everything is as it should be. With that unsettling thought, I find myself dozing off in Dad’s recliner with an old movie flickering on the TV screen, casting shadows in the dimly lit room.

Hours later, a knock echoes through the silent house, startling me awake from a restless doze. I sit up, disheveled, rubbing the remnants of sleep from my eyes. The last twenty-four hours have been a blur of fitful naps and uneasy dreams, leaving me disoriented and adrift between slumber and wakefulness.

Reaching out, I fumble for the remote, my fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface before I mute the television. Stray beams of light, bold and intrusive, pierce through the gaps in the curtains, casting long shadows across the room and creating an illusion of midday rather than predawn stillness.

“Daddy?” I call out, my voice barely above a whisper as my gaze fixes on the door, a portal to unknown news that I’m not sure I’m ready to face. A sense of unease churns in my stomach, and a cold shiver races up my spine. “Dad?” My voice grows louder, more insistent, yet the house remains eerily silent.

No answer.

A glass tumbles off the side table next to me, shattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp, jarring sound. I jerk my head toward the noise, my heart racing. The sight of the broken glass from the ancestral table sends a sharp pang of foreboding through me.

Someone has died.

This knowledge settles in my bones with chilling certainty. My breathing becomes ragged, and fear gnaws at the edges of my composure.

I don’t want to answer that door, yet I find myself compelled to, almost as if drawn by an unseen force. My hand trembles as it reaches for the doorknob, the same one my mama touched only hours ago in what now feels like a different lifetime.

Swallowing hard, I pull the door open to reveal two human police officers standing in the dim porch light, their faces etched with grim resignation. One has dark hair cropped close to his head, giving him a no-nonsense appearance, while the other sports a mop of red hair, his eyes a soft shade of blue.

“We’re looking for Christopher Thompson,” the redhead says, his attempt at a comforting smile falling flat under the weight of the hour.

I stand frozen and speechless as I glance at their cruiser parked in the empty driveway. “D-Daddy isn’t home,” I stammer out, the question of his absence echoing ominously in my mind.

The officers exchange a silent, meaningful glance. One seems to chew on his inner thoughts, while the other shakes his head, a silent conversation passing between them. In that moment, they seem less like ordinary humans and more like characters out of the stories I grew up reading.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, even though the answer already claws at the edges of my consciousness.

“Well, miss, we would really appreciate it if you could try to reach your father for us,” the dark-haired officer, whose badge identifies him as Miller, says kindly.

“Yeah, sure,” I reply, slipping my hand into my back pocket for my phone, but then, headlights sweep into our quiet cul-de-sac. I pause and hold my breath, hoping against hope it’s Mama returning.

As the beat-up pickup truck pulls into the driveway, though, my heart sinks. It’s Daddy. He emerges from the vehicle, his frame tall and imposing. He’s a man who has always been larger than life in my eyes. My friends often say he’s intimidating, with his lanky frame towering at six feet, and his eyes a piercing, crystalline blue that often gives him an air of a brooding anti-hero.

He’s always been my rock, my unwavering supporter, but now, watching him step out of the truck with a casualness that belies the gravity of the situation, I see the truth in Mia and Eloise’s words.

My father looks terrifying.

He glances at the officers with a look of annoyance, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, a habit that’s always been a bone of contention between him and Mama.

“Go inside, Ava,” he commands, striking a match to light his cigarette.

I usually comply without question, but tonight, as he faces the officers with a hardened expression, I feel an invisible hand rest gently on my shoulder, grounding me.

“No,” I whisper, my voice laced with defiance. “What’s happening?” I ask, standing my ground.

“Do you really want to know, Ava?” he counters, taking a long drag. His gaze finally meets mine, holding a challenge.

The hand on my shoulder gives a reassuring squeeze, and I nod, steeling myself for whatever comes next.

With a sympathetic look, Officer Miller speaks up. “Christopher Thompson, we need you to accompany us.”

“Why?” Dad’s tone is flat, defiant, as his gaze remains locked with mine, daring me to back down.

I stand my ground, feeling a surge of determination.

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