It's amazing, sometimes, how quickly things can change in the course of a month.
He's seen Mike several times since they parted ways. Each was a joy, if slightly awkward, and they seem to him to be well on the way to remaining friends. And now they share custody of the dog.
He didn't even try to go back to working on the docks, but instead posted handwritten flyers all over town advertising housecleaning services, and is steadily building up a living through it.
And now there's the House.
See, he had gotten a short-term job cleaning out a house for a realtor. A very nice realtor who liked to stand there and smoke and chat with him during work. And when a certain house came up for sale under her purview, the very nice realtor made sure she called up the person who she thought would be an amazing fit for it.
The house is blue.
Bright, deep blue. And tiny. A small kitchen, a main room, a small bath that was added on later, and two upstairs bedrooms with the walls sloping down on each side into the floor. There's no electricity and never was. But he can manage without it. It's past the gates of the city, and it'll be a long walk every morning and night back and forth. But he can do it. It's right up against the woods. And there's a nice, big yard for dog and chickens alike. And an amazing porch that he fell in love with as soon as he saw it.
And the roof could use replacing, the windows leak, and it's got a nasty little rat problem in the cellar. He could afford it, but things would be tight for a while unless his cleaning business picks up exponentially.
So he hesitated for a good week or two, mulling it over. And then put in an offer. And got a loan, somehow. And got hurried through the paperwork all morning, as the owners quite obviously wanted to sell up before the big storm came.
So now it's Wednesday afternoon. And he's standing in the middle of his cleaned-out room at the Red Dragon Inn. He's had it since summer, portals and months of wandering through the wilderness notwithstanding. He's lived there with Mike. He's lived there with Max. He's lived there with five beautiful chickens from another world he raised in a homemade incubator.
Except Mike is gone; Max and the chickens are out exploring their new house, and all he's got left is a cardboard box he'd cadged off someone and his old pack from his travels on the mainland. He hasn't bothered to look inside, but it's full.
He swings it over his shoulder, picks up the box, and locks the door behind him.
He'll turn in the key on his way out.
He's seen Mike several times since they parted ways. Each was a joy, if slightly awkward, and they seem to him to be well on the way to remaining friends. And now they share custody of the dog.
He didn't even try to go back to working on the docks, but instead posted handwritten flyers all over town advertising housecleaning services, and is steadily building up a living through it.
And now there's the House.
See, he had gotten a short-term job cleaning out a house for a realtor. A very nice realtor who liked to stand there and smoke and chat with him during work. And when a certain house came up for sale under her purview, the very nice realtor made sure she called up the person who she thought would be an amazing fit for it.
The house is blue.
Bright, deep blue. And tiny. A small kitchen, a main room, a small bath that was added on later, and two upstairs bedrooms with the walls sloping down on each side into the floor. There's no electricity and never was. But he can manage without it. It's past the gates of the city, and it'll be a long walk every morning and night back and forth. But he can do it. It's right up against the woods. And there's a nice, big yard for dog and chickens alike. And an amazing porch that he fell in love with as soon as he saw it.
And the roof could use replacing, the windows leak, and it's got a nasty little rat problem in the cellar. He could afford it, but things would be tight for a while unless his cleaning business picks up exponentially.
So he hesitated for a good week or two, mulling it over. And then put in an offer. And got a loan, somehow. And got hurried through the paperwork all morning, as the owners quite obviously wanted to sell up before the big storm came.
So now it's Wednesday afternoon. And he's standing in the middle of his cleaned-out room at the Red Dragon Inn. He's had it since summer, portals and months of wandering through the wilderness notwithstanding. He's lived there with Mike. He's lived there with Max. He's lived there with five beautiful chickens from another world he raised in a homemade incubator.
Except Mike is gone; Max and the chickens are out exploring their new house, and all he's got left is a cardboard box he'd cadged off someone and his old pack from his travels on the mainland. He hasn't bothered to look inside, but it's full.
He swings it over his shoulder, picks up the box, and locks the door behind him.
He'll turn in the key on his way out.