Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
"Will do," I agreed, ending the call, turning back to the chicken coop.
She probably hadn't eaten.
She'd only had coffee with me, then she'd been getting examined, then going to the motel which likely didn't have anything to eat, then back into the woods.
And who knew when she'd last eaten before I found her in the woods.
I collected eggs, and headed back to the house, scrambling a share and a half, piling them on the plate with some fruit and quickly fried breakfast potatoes. That, coffee, and water, found themselves piled on the coffee table. Her body jumped a little at the sound, so I knew she knew it was there. But I was going to take Miller's advice - just do the work, leave it to her to eat or not. Go about my day.
When I came in from mucking out the stalls and cleaning out water troughs, her plate had been picked at slightly, half the fruit gone, a bite or two of eggs and potatoes. The water was half full, the coffee gone.
And the woman herself was absent.
It took all of, oh, point-five seconds to know where she was, thanks to the ever-present Captain, sitting sentry outside the bathroom door.
Later that afternoon, I got another call from Miller, telling me they found the room, gathered the money. Gunn headed on home, having a family to think about. But Miller hung back, taking the scripts to the pharmacy, getting them filled.
She decided it was too late to try to come in, telling me she would start in at daylight the next morning, likely crash for a night, and head back to Navesink Bank the following day.
There was no talk about taking the woman with her, getting her settled in her old life.
And for reasons utterly unknown to me, I didn't press, didn't ask. In fact, I found myself carefully avoiding the subject.
Why?
Yeah, that was the question, wasn't it?
It was entirely out of character for me to want to have someone in the cabin with me. I chafed at the very idea of having a guest. Let alone one who was clearly damaged, struggling.
I wasn't a caregiver by nature.
And I didn't have the tools to help her.
She should be back at her place, with her people, going to some licensed expert.
I mean, not that the brain shrinkers did shit for me. I'd tried. For years. The talking, the journaling, the exposure therapy, and - when all else failed - even the medications. That made shit even worse.
You want to really fuck with someone's mental health? Give them medicine that makes them want to kill themselves when, normally, their depression didn't tilt in the direction of self-conclusion.
I ditched the medications, ditched the doctors, ditched the world as a whole.
That was what I chose.
But I understood, too, that it wouldn't be considered a healthy coping mechanism.
How the fuck could I help her find something healthy when I couldn't find it for myself?
Shaking my head, I moved back outside, working in the greenhouse, spreading some compost in the raised beds, wondering if the frost was nearly over so I could start planting.
By the time I came in for lunch, she was back on the couch, burrowed into the cushions, legs rocking, so I knew she was awake, though she actively avoided me.
A bit hesitantly, Cap got up, whining, likely needing to go out.
"Go on, bud. I'll keep an eye," I told him, voice low, holding the door open to let him rush out.
Figuring she wasn't in a talking mood - something I was infrequently in myself, so I saw no need to press it - I moved into the kitchen, chopping up vegetables, opening cans - tomato paste, beans - and set a chili to cook. I wondered a bit if she needed meat. Because of all that blood loss. If I should make Miller bring some in. Meat, as a whole, was a luxury. Sometimes, I fished occasionally, but fish didn't keep that well in the freezer. And, once in a blue moon, I might hunt. Killing animals wasn't something I enjoyed. I had trouble with it even if it was a mercy kill.
I'd had enough killing in my life already. I didn't do it for sport. And rarely for sustenance.
Sometimes when I went into town, I would load down a cooler, pack my freezer. But it had been a long time. My supplies were almost nonexistent.
Protein, as a whole, came from beans and certain grains, legumes. Things that kept well on a shelf for extended periods of time.
Adding spices, I looked over, wondering what her preferences were. If she liked spice, if she liked things more bland.
I'd had dozens of clients in my house, crashing in the guest room. I never gave a second thought to their preferences. This wasn't a resort. There was no room service. I wasn't a chef. So you ate what I offered you, or you went hungry. Case closed.