‘What are you doing here?’ The words dripped some mixture of disdain and confusion, with perhaps a dash of amusement.
‘I heard tell of a business proposal and thought to offer my assistance,’ he replied easily.
Even the horse snorted.
‘More than likely,’ drawled the brunette, ‘your latest crush stomped all over your poor ego and you hightailed it.’
He smiled in the manner of a grimace. ‘You wound me with your words, dear sister. I remember a time when you were sympathetic of my plight.’
She hummed. ‘Ya, and you still owe me.’
‘I am excused from judgment for arguing with myself, aren’t I, considering the circumstances?’ With a sigh that was only tired, she offered an explanation, knowing it wasn’t going to be asked for anyway. ‘See, I’ve been debating in my mind the pros and cons of dying and coming back to life as a zombie.’
Even discounting that he didn’t have the slightest idea what she was saying, the tone of her voice seemed to be more than passing strange. The Reeve gave her a searching look; perhaps she was daft? Had she been struck in the head, as well as her other injuries?
For her part she decided that even though he hadn’t looked terribly keen on assisting some mad, bleeding lady in strange clothing, and likely wasn’t listening to her foreign babble, pondering her life as the undead was far more appealing than wondering how much longer it would take to lose consciousness.
‘I’m not sure which me is winning. But stay tuned: somebody’s got a spatula.’
‘Don’t tell me nobody’s told you about Old Man Dowell?’
If ever there was a sentence to seep dread into my heart, that there would be it. My new home town just had to have its darker side, probably à la Pet Sematary, damn my luck.
‘Downey Dowell,’ the other boy said, hands stuffed into red jacket sleeves. ‘Dreadful Dowell, more like.’
Blondie number one vigorously nodded in agreement.
‘…so I went to go introduce myself, behind the counter was this really good-looking sixty-, seventy-something year old–‘
‘Oh yeah. And that was how I found out I was gay. —No, that’s not this story.’