Page 12 of Monster in the Moonlight

“What? You can’t walk all this way. Not in this heat.”

“I’m not. I’m getting a ride with someone.”

“Who?”

“A customer. Ellister somebody. Says he’s here to see you.”

“I don’t know anyone named Ellister. Do not get into some random man’s car.” Dad sounds overly concerned, which is a new thing he’s been doing since I got sick.

It’s weird to see him so anxious, especially about a customer. We’re used to strangers coming and going all the time.

When you have a business like ours, you grow accustomed to people acting like your home is theirs. And that’s the way we like it. The motto for the Wildwood Maple Farm is literallyWhere Our Home is Yours. It says so right on the sign.

“Well, it would be pointless for you to come out here when I’m already heading your way,” I say. “I’ll see you in like forty-five seconds.”

“Hannah, you can’t just go around acting like you have nothing to lose.”

“Dad,” I sigh. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“He drives off with you, and I never see you again.”

Grief and sadness squeeze my heart.

My dad needs to let me go. Sooner or later—most likely sooner—he’s going to have to live without me. I don’t know how to prepare him for that, but maybe this will be a good exercise.

“Here, I’ll tell you the license plate, just in case he’s a serial killer.”

“Not funny.” I hear the jingle of his keys.

Supporting most of my weight by leaning on the car, I make my way around to the rear, peer at the plate, and spell out, “B-I-G. Then S-H-T-1. I think it’s supposed to say big-shot-one, but honestly it looks like ‘big shit’ to me.”

“I’m meeting you at the end of the driveway.” Through the speaker, the engine of Dad’s truck roars to life.

“Okay. Love you.”

I hang up, and by the time I’m dropping into the seat next to Ellister, he’s looking at me with quizzical calculation as his gaze flits to the dashboard and the gearshift. “Perhaps you should drive this thing.”

I pat my bum leg. “I totally would, but I can’t be trusted behind the wheel of heavy machinery. I could try to operate it with my left foot, but if I pass out while we’re in motion, we’re doomed.”

Ellister’s eyebrows furrow. “Why would you lose consciousness because of a cripp—” At my sharp look, he amends, “Er, because of a leg issue?”

Now I’m positive he’s not here for the event tonight, because if he were, he’d know more about my condition. Everyone in town does.

I tap the flyer before holding it up for him to see. “The benefit tonight is for me. We’re trying to raise money for my hospital bills.”

At the top of the paper, there’s a black and white picture of me from two years ago after I graduated college. I look happy and healthy. Because I was.

Underneath the photo, the party schedule is listed. There’s a pancake dinner for five dollars a plate, a silent auction, then a barn dance.

It doesn’t specifically say what my condition is because we don’t even know, but it does list the goal of an experimental treatment I could qualify for if I meet the requirements.

“You’re ill?” Ellister looks even paler than he did before as he swallows audibly. “What are your symptoms?”

Suddenly, he’s draped over the middle console, and he’s close. So close. Just inches away from me, he examines me with narrowed eyes. Once again, his gaze sweeps over my legs before pausing on the cane between my knees. He travels up, inspecting my arms.

Goose bumps appear along the way, as if he’s physically skimming me with his fingertips.

When he makes it up to my face, his tight expression softens a bit, and he sweeps some of my flyaway hairs from my forehead before pressing his knuckles to my skin. “Fevers?”

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