Page 4 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
We ride in companionable quiet for a while. Then, just as the school comes into view, he says, “Please don’t turn the siren on.”
“Why not? Scares off bullies.”
“I don’t want attention, Dad.”
I glance over at him — lanky, still figuring himself out — and sigh. “Fine. But tomorrow, if you’re late…”
He grins. “Yeah, yeah. Full siren humiliation.”
He hops out and jogs toward the school with a small wave. I watch until he disappears inside, then pull away, drumming myfingers on the wheel. Another day to prove myself as Golden Heights’ reliable first responder.
Golden Heights at eight a.m. is a slow hum of desert life waking up: shop doors clanking open, the whir of an ancient ceiling fan in a storefront, a man in a cowboy hat sweeping dust off a porch. This town’s only big enough for one high school, one middle, and a cluster of diners everyone swears are “the best.” They size up new people quickly. Especially a sheriff.
I still feel like the outsider — “that guy from out of town.” I catch myself scanning storefronts, memorizing names painted on weathered signs, trying to stitch myself into the fabric here. If people see me show up and handle business, maybe they’ll start trusting me when it matters.
Dispatch chatter crackles: minor fender bender on Route 9, a suspicious person call that turns out to be a teenager with a hoodie. I handle one, wave at a few shopkeepers. Someone honks and gives me the once-over. Small town: they’re deciding if I belong.
Then the 911 call comes: “pet in distress.” Closest unit wins the prize. Guess that’s me.
I park at a faded ranch-style house. A woman in a hospital-issue gown is smoking on the porch like she’s been waiting since the Carter administration.
“Ma’am,” I say. “Sheila Hunter?”
She nods, unimpressed.
“You called about a pet?”
“Took you long enough.” She gestures with her cigarette. “My poor Bennington’s been stuck for hours.”
“I’m sorry about the delay — we’re a little short-staffed today.” And apparently out of Febreze; the cigarette smoke hits like a wall.
“Where is Bennington?”
She points toward a rickety basement door. “Down there. Hole in the wood. Kids with skateboards — I’ve complained. Nobody cares.”
I jot notes while resisting the urge to cough. “We’ll… look into that. What kind of animal is Bennington?”
“She.” Her glare could curdle milk. “And you’ll see.”
Great.
I unlatch the basement door, click on my flashlight, and descend into a cave of dust and forgotten furniture. “Bennington?” My voice echoes off concrete. “Come on, buddy…”
The beam hits movement behind an old bookshelf.
Oh. Not a cat. Not a dog.
A full-grown monitor lizard, tongue flicking like something from a nature doc. My stomach does a neat little drop.
“Ma’am?” I call up. “You forgot to mention Bennington is amonitor lizard.”
“Not illegal!” she yells back. “Last I checked!”
I radio dispatch: “Be advised, animal is… reptilian. Requesting guidance.”
Static, then: “Animal control ETA twenty-five minutes.”
I could wait. Or I could get mauled and make the evening news.
