Page 105 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

“He looks like a Pork Chop,” Ira mused, squinting at the hefty raccoon now waddling along the edge of the porch. “Or maybe just Chunk. Yeah, Chunk suits him.”

“Will you stop?” I snapped. “You’re going to give the guy a complex.”

Ira raised his eyebrows. “A complex? Sweetheart, he’s more like a duplex.”

I didn’t dignify that with a reply—just threw a cheesy puff at his head. Or tried to. It missed and landed on his knee instead.

And that’s when it happened.

One second, the porch was quiet, maybe even charming. The next, there was a blur of motion, a thump of something heavy, and Clayton—the raccoon formerly known as Raccoon Kong—launched himself onto Ira like a furry torpedo, swiped the cheesy puff off his leg like it was a sacred treasure, and jumped down again with an agility his body type had no right to have.

Ira froze mid-holler, clutching at his chest. “I take it back,” he wheezed. “To hell with dying of a heart attack, I’m going to die of rabies.”

I doubled over laughing, even as the pain in my ribs flared. “Oh my God, your face?—”

He held up a hand dramatically. “Wheelchair now. That rodent cracked my femur with sheer heft.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’ve been assaulted by wildlife!”

We were mid-bicker, about to launch into whether or not a raccoon that round could actually be classified as “wildlife,” when a soft tinkling echoed through the air.

We both froze as another chime rang out—faint but unmistakable. It was one of the perimeter bells, the soft sound cutting through the stillness like a warning. Someone was out there.

Ira narrowed his eyes. “If that’s more Godzilla-sized raccoons, I’m going inside, locking the door, and using that deluxe bathroom you’ve been deprived of. Then I’ll describe it in graphic detail while you keep pooping behind trees.”

“Try it, and I’m peeing on your pillow.”

But he was already gone—slipping back into the dark, silent as ever. I waited a beat… then another… then too many. With every minute, my heartbeat climbed higher in my throat.

Skillet in one hand, ant spray in the other, it was a slow, limping descent off the porch, staying tucked in the deepest shadows that clung to the cabin like a security blanket. I kept my back pressed to the wall, breath held tight, every muscle braced against the urge to imagine the worst. My heart was thundering so loud I was sure it could be heard from space.

What if it wasn’t more raccoons? What if something had happened to Ira?

What if?—

The bushes rustled then parted, and Ira emerged—grinning like he’d just won bingo night—marching two men by the ears like they were drunk frat boys caught TP’ing his rose bushes.

“Found these two skulking around,” he stated gruffly. “Say they’re here to protect you, so I brought ’em in for questioning.”

He flicked on a flashlight and shined it in their faces, making both men wince like vampires at dawn. I squinted, pulse still racing, not trusting what I was seeing. Their faces were screwed up so tightly they looked like a pair of distressed cats.

“I think I recognize them,” I said slowly, my eyes darting between their squashed features. “But I can’t tell because you’ve mashed their faces together like a Claymation nightmare.”

One of them—taller, leaner, and visibly regretting his life choices—spoke up first. “Name’s Jesse, I’m Webb’s brother. You’ve seen me at all those family things I never wanted to go to.”

The other one muttered, “Remy. You know me, too."

I tilted my head. “Can you relax your faces, please? You both look like… cat’s assholes.” They did as I asked slowly. “Oh!” I brightened. “Yeah, now I see it. You’re the guy who kept stealing the deviled eggs at Webb’s aunt’s Fourth of July barbecue.”

Remy looked mildly offended. “They were delicious.”

Jesse rubbed his jaw. “We’ve got guys lying in wait around the cabin monitoring all entry points.”

Ira scoffed, folding his arms. “That's just unnecessary. I trapped the place myself.”

“Yeah, well,” Jesse replied, “Gabby’s traps are holding up too.”

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