Page 101 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

Gladys wandered into the room as we laid everything out—rifles, shotguns, handguns, extra magazines, body armor—and paused, looking over the arsenal.

After a long, appraising moment, she gave a sharp nod. “Ira’s gonna love those.”

Jackson barked a laugh. “We’re not arming a man in his eighties, Gladys.”

Gladys just smiled slyly. “I’ll bet you anything he can outshoot every single one of you.”

Wes raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Oh, seriously.” Her eyes twinkled. “Tell you what—you survive this mess, I’ll set up a shooting contest. The winner gets my peach cobbler recipe.”

“That’s the most Southern thing I’ve ever heard,” Malcolm muttered, grinning.

She winked and leaned down, patting a pistol fondly. “You should see his property. Ira has his own workshop where he even makes his own ammunition.”

Remy, who was checking over the comms equipment, froze and raised his hand like a cautious schoolkid. “Uh, quick question.”

Gladys tilted her head, amused. “Yes, sugar?”

“Where exactly is this ammo workshop?” Remy asked. “Just...you know, for future reference.”

She gave him a sugary smile. “Why?”

Remy deadpanned, “So we can avoid it in case it explodes.”

The room burst into laughter, some of the tension finally easing, even as we continued packing and preparing.

Because as much as we needed that brief spark of humor, a flicker of light in the middle of all the tension, we all knew the truth. The real work was just beginning, and we were heading straight into the heart of it.

Chapter 32

Gabby

My head throbbed like a punk rock concert was happening inside my skull. Even blinking too fast made me feel like someone had taken a paint mixer to my brain. My concussion was still absolutely a fan of ruining my life.

And paired with the fractured body, healing stitches, and the ache that lived in my bones like a squatter refusing to leave? Yeah, I was a human wreck. A mostly horizontal, snack-slinging wreck. Which was how I found myself planted on the porch in a ratty old rocking chair beside Ira, wrapped in a throw blanket like a retired pirate, feeding a gang of raccoons who clearly thought I was their queen.

Wieners, cheesy puffs, and burnt toast—the raccoon diet of champions. And they were fighting over it like they were auditioning for a National Geographic special called Trash Bandit Brawl.

Ira sipped his coffee, shaking his head. “You really think they understand you?”

“They do,” I replied firmly, tossing a puff to the one I’d decided was named Ricky. “They respond to tone, and this one knows when I’m mad.”

“You sound mad a lot.” Ira hid his smile behind the mug.

“I think I've earned it.”

He nodded. “That's fair.”

We fell into a comfortable silence, watching Ricky attempt to bodycheck a fatter raccoon off a crust of toast. That toast, for the record, had been an attempt at breakfast, which I'd cooked inthatskillet.

“Don’t touch the skillet,” I warned him again. “It’s been seasoned.”

He gave me a sage nod. “That’s where the best food comes from.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell Webb,” I huffed. “I clean it with soap and water when he’s not looking.”

Ira choked on his coffee. “You’re trying to die, aren’t you?”

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