Page 27 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

“So,” I continued, “the cute little bandits won’t have a horrible frothy-mouthed death, and I won’t die of raccoon rabies.” I beamed. “It’s a win-win.”

He blinked. “You’re... okay, I’m just going to accept that this is how your brain works now.”

I nodded cheerfully. “We all have our coping mechanisms.”

Then, realizing I still hadn’t peed, I spun toward the outhouse and took off at a brisk flip-flop shuffle, calling over my shoulder, “I do, however, need to be armed next time!”

Webb sounded alarmed. “I’m not giving you a weapon!”

I turned halfway, still walking. “Not that kind of armed.”

He frowned. “What other kind of armed is there?”

I didn’t stop. “Emotional preparedness, Webb. Tactical snacks, maybe a loud whistle! Gotta keep ‘em guessing, ya know?”

I yanked the outhouse door open and disappeared inside, leaving him behind in a cloud of confusion and lingering broom-holding dread.

And honestly, it felt like progress.

It started,as most of my bad decisions did lately, with boredom and a pantry inventory. Webb had gone off somewhere around the back of the cabin to “check the traps,” which I hoped meant something involving small game and not accidentally catching himself in a bear snare. With him gone and nothing else to do, I’d decided to see if there was anything left in our apocalypse stash that wouldn’t either catch fire or emotionally betray me like the eggs.

I found the sardines behind a box of stale crackers and a can of something with no label on it. They were sardines in oil that'd expired three years ago. Perfect.

Now, a normal person might’ve thought, “Hmm, this belongs in the trash.” But I thought of the raccoons. If they could drink puddle water outside an outhouse and still strut around like they ran the forest, surely a little expired fish wouldn’t kill them. They ate literal trash, I’d seen one chew a melted granola bar wrapper once and look happy about it.

So, I grabbed one of the least-rusted cans, pried it open with the old opener hanging by the sink—which looked like it had lived through three wars—and nearly gagged when the smell hit me.

“Oh, that’s revolting,” I muttered, holding the can as far from my face as possible.

The oil shimmered, and the fish glistened in that awful, pale way sardines do. I tried my best not to breathe while I used a butter knife to hack them into ugly, slimy chunks on a cracked plate, but my resistance to breathing was futile, so I gagged a few times.

By the time I got outside, I was second-guessing everything, but I kept going. I wandered down to the edge of the clearing, where the tree line started, far enough to be curious and close enough not to die.

I stood there for a minute, plate in hand, and then tossed the first chunk into the bushes like it was a ritual offering to the gods of chaos.

“Okay,” I called, scanning the trees, “please don’t let it be a ‘gator that answers the fishy call. Or a crocodile, whichever one this bayou has." Then, I thought about Webb's warnings andamended my list. "Or a coyote or snake. Or a snake riding a coyote.”

When nothing happened, I eased myself down onto a flat rock nearby, gripping the plate like it held the secrets of the universe. My eyes stayed fixed on the woods, alert and searching for even the slightest movement.

The underbrush rustled softly. Then, just beyond the ferns, something appeared. A small, twitching black nose poked out from beneath the greenery, sniffing the air with the kind of focus and precision you’d expect from someone holding a doctorate in Sardine Scent Detection.

“Steve?” I whispered. “That you?”

He crept out slowly and cautiously, his fur ruffled and paws light. He looked even scrappier, as if someone had dressed a bandit in an old bath mat and taught him parkour.

I tossed another chunk a little closer. Steve picked it up, turned it in his hands like he was considering the Yelp review, and then started chewing with these little smacking noises that were weirdly adorable.

More rustling followed, and a second raccoon appeared, then a third. They all paused, eyed me suspiciously, and then approached the sardine pieces like tiny gremlins at a buffet.

I didn’t move, I wasn’t about to get mauled for fish paste. But I did talk because, well, who else was I going to talk to?

“You guys have it easy,” I said softly. “You sleep in trees, steal from trash, and scream when scared. Honestly, on that one, same.”

Steve made a little huffing noise and continued chewing.

“I’m out here hiding from a guy who literally buries people under buildings. You’re just trying to survive the squirrel turf wars.”

One of them sneezed.

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