Page 33 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

I paused. “Okay… but are you good at it?”

She winced and repeated ambiguously, “I can shoot.”

“Uh, no, that’s not an answer. That’s a warning label.”

“I’ve never accidentally shot anyone,” she added quickly.

“Yet.”

She punched my shoulder lightly, then left her hand there, fingers curling into my t-shirt. Her breath was still unsteady, but she looked at me like she was seeing something new.

I didn’t plan to kiss her, but then she leaned in just enough, and I didn’t lean back, and the fire crackled like it was in on the secret. Her lips were soft, warm, and salted with tears.

When we pulled back, both a little breathless, we were still holding on, like maybe letting go would break something we hadn’t named yet.

We both froze as a sound—soft but distinct—crackled through the underbrush. Our heads snapped toward the noise, and there, just beyond the edge of the trees, sat three raccoons in a neat little row. They weren’t moving. Just watching, silent and unblinking, like tiny, judgmental forest gods.

Gabby blinked. “Are they... are they watching us?”

One tilted its head.

“Like little bandit perverts,” I muttered.

Gabby burst out laughing, and for a second, even with the storm coming, it felt like we had the upper hand. Even if we did have to share it with a raccoon audience.

Just after midmorning,the crunch of tires over gravel echoed faintly through the trees. Gabby and I both turned, squinting toward the sound, eyes straining to see through the dense branches. Far in the distance, a truck rolled into view—a beat-up old thing that looked like it had lost a fistfight with a mudslide and somehow come out grinning.

“Friend of yours?” Gabby asked, squinting like she expected the truck to explode.

“Yeah,” I confirmed. “Backup.”

From far off, the faint creak of a door echoed across the trees. Gabby winced and muttered, “Someone needs to introduce that truck to WD-40.”

A few minutes passed, the sound of footsteps crunching over leaves and gravel slowly growing closer. Then, through the trees, Eddie emerged—walking the rest of the way with the steady pace of someone who knew how to move through the wild without rushing it.

He was dressed in a camo shirt and cargo pants, his boots caked in something that might’ve once been mud. Or blood. I didn’t ask. His effortless swagger said this wasn’t his first time off-grid. Probably wasn’t even his hundredth.

“Eddie,” I greeted, shaking his hand. “Appreciate you coming up.”

“No problem,” he said, slapping the bag he was carrying with a dusty hand. “Brought the toys, too.”

Gabby peeked inside and blinked. “Holy crap. That’s… that’s a lot of stuff.”

Eddie didn’t say much—just jerked his head and motioned for us to follow him. We trailed after him through the trees and underbrush, ducking under low-hanging branches and stepping over roots until the battered old truck finally came into view again.

He led us around to the back and opened it up with a creak that echoed through the still air. Crates. He had actual crates. Ammo, gear, a few rifles tucked into soft cases, extra knives, a box of trail rations that looked military-grade, and—because, of course, he did—a big silver satellite phone nestled on top like the cherry on a survivalist sundae.

Gabby let out a low whistle. “You building a bunker or just preparing to take over a small country?”

Eddie just smirked and said, “Preparedness is a lifestyle.” He tossed the satellite phone to me. “Keep that on you, just in case. I’ll be posted about a mile out, and if you call, I promise to haul ass.”

Gabby frowned. “You’re staying out there?”

Eddie grinned. “Yep, figured I’d rough it a bit. There's not much reception, but peace and quiet’s nice.”

Gabby stared at him like he’d grown a third eye. “Are you insane? You could get eaten by a prehistoric fish or swallowed whole by a bayou anaconda!”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Anaconda?”

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