Page 12 of Dream Chaser
Inside, the house hums with that late-night stillness only homes built like ours know how to hold—like it’s breathing around you.
“Hey, old boy, you didn’t have to get up,” I whisper to Wile, my half-blind, barrel-chested mutt; a mash-up of Labrador, shepherd, and possibly throw pillow. His fur’s gone mostly silver around the muzzle, and one of his eyes is clouded, giving him this constant pirate squint like he’s sizing up your soul.
He doesn’t lie back down; he heads to me, walking with a slight limp, back hips stiff with age, and his ears don’t work nearly as well as they used to, but he always knows when I’m home. Probably from smell. Or instinct. Honestly, it’s Wile, so anything’s possible.
He noses my leg, snorts like I’ve inconvenienced him, but he needs his nightly pets, then turns around and lumbers back toward his pillow, assuming I’ll follow. Which, obviously, I will.
The smell hits first: peppermint and rosemary from Mom’s diffuser, a faint trace of cedar from the woodpile, and somethingwarm, like leftover cornbread and flannel. It’s peace, bottled up and served on soft lighting and creaky floorboards.
I drop my bag by the bench near the door, take off my shoes, and head for the kitchen. The under-cabinet lights are on low, casting a golden glow over the countertops. A mason jar of tea waits on the stove with a sticky note:
Heat me up if you’re late, sweetheart. xoxo — Mom
There’s a little doodle of a moon with a sleep mask. Classic.
I warm the tea, take it to the window, and glance out at the greenhouse where Mom probably had her moon meditation earlier. Her version of yoga involves a Bluetooth speaker, a space heater, and softly cussing when her joints pop.
The back hallway creaks, and Dad’s silhouette appears. He’s in flannel pajama pants and a Blue Valley Football sweatshirt that’s older than I am.
“You’re home late.” His voice is low and scratchy from sleep.
“You’re up.”
“Mom heard coyotes. Said to check if you were home before she hexes them.”
“Tell her not to use the good salt.”
It’s a joke. Mom’s not a witch, but tell that to the girls in school who tried to torment me with their bullshit.
He grunts something that could be a laugh, ruffles my hair as he walks past, and disappears toward the bedroom. That’s all we need. No ten-minute debrief. No deep dive into the day. Just that touch, that acknowledgment—you’re home, you’re safe, you’re loved.
When my tea is warmed, I pour it in a mug and sit down next to my guy, sipping it as I pet him until he’s snoring. I miss the days he followed me up the stairs and slept at my feet, but he knows his limits, and I’m painfully aware he’s not a pup anymore.
I climb the stairs to my room, strip out of my clothes, change into another one of Dad’s old sweatshirts, and head to my bed, which is a nest of pillows and old quilts. The large windows allow the moonlight to shine in, lighting the walls covered in band posters, postcards, and a string of photos clipped to twinkle lights—all photos of me and my cousins. All young and carefree. It feels like a lifetime ago.
I yawn as I curl up facing the window and watch the stars blink through the glass.
Out there, the world’s about to get wild—tight shirts, Philly energy, toddler-led cheers. But here?
Here, it’s just us.
Morning comes soft. Not with an alarm, but with sunlight slipping through the window.
I blink awake in my nest of quilts and stretch, listening to the creaks of the house as it warms to the day. I then toss my legs over the side and force myself to throw on some clothes and head to the greenhouse, knowing Mom is out there, trying to get all our seeds planted for the farming venture, even though I told her that Maggie and I would handle everything.
Downstairs, Wile’s standing by the screen, one cloudy eye fixed on me, tail giving a slow, steady thump. I grab my coat, shove my boots on, and open the door. He steps outside withthe quiet dignity of a dog who’s done this a thousand mornings before. No rush. No fanfare. Business as usual.
The air is cold, crisp enough to nip at my ankles, and the sky’s still holding onto that predawn silver. I follow the path to the greenhouse.
It’s already glowing. Not glowing like a fairy tale, just good, honest warmth from the heater and the string of warm lights Dad rigged up years ago. Mom’s inside, bent over a tray of seedlings, glasses fogged slightly at the edges, braid looped over one shoulder. She’s got that face she gets when she’s in her zone—peaceful, focused, a little smug in that I-told-you-kale-was-a-winter-crop kind of way.
“You’re up early,” she says without looking up.
“So are you.”
The greenhouse smells like damp earth, mint, and something spicy—probably microgreens. There are trays everywhere: onions just sprouting, spinach and kale unfurling like sleepy little fists, and a fresh round of microgreens pushing through grow mats like they’ve got somewhere to be. On the drying rack, I spot bundles of thyme, parsley, and the last of the fall rosemary, crisping in the corner near the heater.
“I’ve got red Russian kale starting over here, and the leeks just popped,” she says, lifting a tray to show me. “Your spinach looks better than mine. Again.”
