Page 26 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

He runs a finger over the bruising. “It’s nothing. All part of the job description. Got an elbow to the face from one of the Stingers the other night.”

I do my thing with the key box and we let ourselves in. “I’m adding one more item to the list of reasons I like my job. No elbows to the face in realty.”

Bobby laughs and lifts his eyes to scan the space. “Nice.” His voice echoes off the walls of the empty house as we both admire the exposed wood beams and earthy neutrals of the decor.

I’m just about to go over the house’s features when a loud siren sounds from outside with five short blasts. My startled gaze jumps first to the door and then to Bobby. His posture tenses, eyes narrowing as he cranes his neck to look out the windows.

“That sounds like a lightning siren, doesn’t it?” He sets my bag on the floor, his eyes coming back to me.

“Maybe? I don’t know. Isn’t that usually one long air horn sound?” I shake my head to clear out the cobwebs. “Why do I have no idea what that siren means?” And why the hell am I panicking? It’s probably nothing. Terrorists wouldn’t come to Florida, would they? Oh god. Theytotallywould.

Sensing my rising hysteria—which would be impossible to miss—Bobby comes close and takes both my hands in his large ones. They’re steady and warm, unlike mine, which have begun trembling. “I’m sure everything is fine.” His thumbs stroke back and forth over the backs of my hands, and it’s almost hypnotic in the way it immediately calms me. “The skies are clear. Lemme just hop on my phone, and I’ll find out what it is, okay?” Bobby is still on weather while I’m imagining nuclear war over here.

He waits for my nod before releasing my hands and pulling his phone from his shorts pocket. I worry my lip while conjuring a mental image of Matty’s school. It’s got a huge basement and concrete block construction, thank god. But still, the idea of my son crouched in fear in a dark basement has me breaking out in a cold sweat even as I remind myself his school is miles from here.

“Molly,” Bobby says in a tone that tells me it’s not the first time he’s tried to get my attention.

My wide eyes flash to his face, looking for any sign of bad news, but his expression is indiscernible.

He raises a palm to me in a placating gesture. “It’s nothing dire.”

The breath whooshes from my lungs. “Then what is it?”

He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again before looking down at his phone. “It’s...” He lifts the phone and points the screen my way. “...a snake.”

“What?!” I’m clearly hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or maybe a tornado already ripped through the house and I’m dead. Because his words make zero sense.

Bobby’s response is to shake the phone to get my attention. When I look down at it, the words are clear as day.

BURMESE PYTHON ESCAPE

Avila is on lockdown. Residents are instructed to stay inside and close all windows and doors until further notice. An illegally housed Burmese python has escaped a neighborhood home, and authorities are actively searching for the reptile. If sighted, DO NOT APPROACH. Call 9-1-1 immediately and retreat to safety.

When I turn my shocked expression back to Bobby, I see he’s fighting a laugh, those matching dimples winking at me while he tries forcing his mirth down. At the look on my face, he loses the battle and bends at the waist as he guffaws. “You should see your face!”

“I can’t believe you!” I bat at his arm. “This isn’t funny. Do you know how long this could take? We could be here all day! And somebody’s poor dog is probably being slowly digested by that thing this very moment.”

Bobby’s head snaps up, a look of panic replacing the amusement.

I prop my hands on my hips. “Not so funny when poor Fido enters the picture, huh?”

“Shit!” Bobby lifts his phone again. “I’ve got practice in just over an hour. Coach is going to have my ass if I’m late!” His thumbs fly over the phone as deep furrows form on his forehead.

“It’s not like it’s your fault,” I argue, but he doesn’t appear to hear me. I decide to investigate a little further on my phone to see if there are more details. My first search brings up a social media post from thirty minutes ago with a video captioned, “Florida Man Makes Public Appeal to Save Pet Python.” Good lord.

An older man appears on-screen wearing a backward orange baseball cap and an unkempt beard, both hands steepled in front of him. “Please, if you see Betsy, don’t hurt her. She’s a sweet little thing and doesn’t mean nobody no harm.” He holds up a photo of himself with an enormous brown and tan snake draped around his neck. I fight a shudder. “She’s never eaten anyone, I swear! I just want my Betsy back.”

I quickly close the video to look for other information that does not include photos or bearded Florida men. Bobby sighs and drops his head back.

“Any luck?” I ask.

He straightens his head and runs a hand over his face. “Let’s just hope they find him quickly.”

“Her. Not him. Her name is Betsy.”

“What?” His expression is both weary and confused, so I give his bicep a pat, instructing myself not to notice his arm porn.

“Don’t worry about it. Why don’t we go ahead and tour the house since we’re here?”

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