Page 104 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

“I literally can’t move fast,” I hissed. “Remember the part where my bones are taped together like a clearance-sale action figure?”

He cursed under his breath, set his coffee down, and disappeared into the dark, so silently I didn’t even register the moment he left. One second, he was there, and the next, just empty space and shadows where he used to be.

For a solid five seconds, I stared, waiting for my brain to catch up, and then the panic set in. I glanced around wildly for a weapon—anything—my hand landing on two items within reach: a nearly full can of industrial-strength ant spray and the seasoned skillet of doom I’d ruined breakfast in. Perfect.

I tightened my grip around the skillet’s handle with one hand and clutched the ant spray like a grenade in the other, slowlystanding and hobbling into a position near the door. My heart pounded like a war drum as I tried to keep my balance.

A low groan of wood settling made me jump just as a branch snapped somewhere to the left. The shadows between the trees shifted just enough to make every hair on my arms rise.

I took a shaky breath and braced myself, picturing how my police report would read:Local woman fends off attacker with pest control and poorly washed cookware.At least it’d be memorable.

Then I saw movement—low and fast—cutting across the line of trees.

I raised the ant spray with shaking fingers, ready to blind whoever dared approach me.

“I swear to God if that’s you trying to scare me, Ira, I will make it hurt.”

There was no response—just more rustling in the shadows.

I took a step back toward the doorway, eyes scanning the shadows, breath coming in shallow bursts...and then Ira stepped out from the trees.

He looked confused, relieved, and maybe even a little offended, like he’d just been accused of something he hadn’t done.

He stared at me, waiting. I figured I'd give him a taste of his own medicine for making me move quickly, so I stared back, skillet raised, and the spray aimed at his chest.

“Well, that’s comforting.”

I lowered the spray a fraction, still breathless. “What was it?”

He blinked like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “Do you have…an exceptionally fat raccoon friend?”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Yes, yes, I do.”

Ira stared at me for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “Of course you do.”

“I’m naming him Clayton,” I added.

“Why?”

“Because Steve’s already taken, and he’s handsome,” I replied simply like that explained everything. “Clayton deserves a name that shames him into being more like Steve.”

Ira watched me warily. “Who the hell is Steve?”

“You met him earlier. The raccoon with the sleek tail and symmetrical dark circles around his eyes. Total heartthrob. He’s polite, calm, and only swipes when it’s his turn.”

Ira threw his hands in the air. “They all have dark circles around their eyes and striped tails. They all look like that!”

I gasped like he’d just insulted my child. “Absolutely not, Steve's distinguished.”

He trudged back to his chair, muttering under his breath. “Concussions make people crazy…”

I did my own version of a flop back onto my seat beside him and huffed. “I named him before I got my head injuries, thank you very much.”

Ira just rubbed his face with both hands, probably trying to decide if there was enough bourbon left in the world to deal with me.

Out beyond the porch, the shadows settled again, the rustling quieted, and the fat raccoon—Clayton—peeked from behind a tree like he’d been listening this whole time. Great, now I’d fat-shamed a raccoon and terrified an old man.

Clayton blinked at me, so I held up a cheesy puff as an apology and watched as he waddled forward. Balance was restored. Sort of.

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