Page 32 of Home to the Hollow

Voices buzz around me again, and I catch bits of the conversation as I smile lazily.

“… you manage the animals because she’s gotcats…”

“Do you have her? The back door is open, I think…”

Movement jostles me, but I don’t open my eyes because I’m too floaty and wonderful to even take part.

“… got ‘em inside. The bird is nesting…”

“… the bedroom is upstairs, right? What do you mean you don’t know?”

I lift a hand to point at the ceiling, or I think I do, and chuckles echo off the marble in the foyer. At least, it sounds like the foyer. Hell, they could take me to the garage for all I know.

“… she so out of it?”

“No clue… she’s a… right?”

“… no one knows…”

It occurs to me I should probably pay attention to whatever they’re discussing because they’ve dropped to whispers, but I can’t focus enough to do so.

The last thing that goes through my head as I feel bodies—including mine—hit softness is that I hope I don’t wake up alone covered in chigger bites.

That would suck.

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