Day 163:

Chirp chirp chirp
chirp chirp chirp chirp.

The crickets chatter outside of your window. 

Click. You flick on the light switch, hesitantly walking into the room.

The milky light from a lamp floods the room. You move your bags over, walking into the small guest room.

Sheriff Galpin let you stay here after he heard the whole story.

You drag the bag with your few belongings and plop it on the bed, onto a dusty old red cover with a thick embroidery. The room is small, but there's a window that overlooks the forest near Nevermore.

You wonder how many times he ran through that forest, how many times he climbed into the window next to yours.

The window to his room is dark now. You don't think anyone stays there anymore. And that's when the final question crosses your mind like a midnight starshot, the one you've been avoiding:

Is he dead?

The silence answers back to you, ringing in your ears. The crickets chirp from behind the window. The lamp buzzes.

You sit heavily down on the bed with a thud. Are there records you can access? You gave up your USOAT computer and all your access before you left. You won't find anything there. USOAT leaves barely a trace anywhere it goes, so you won't find anything here in Jericho, either.

You pull off your shirt, get into your pajamas, and pull the covers over yourself.

You flick off the lamp. Click. The room drops into black, chattering with muffled noises of the forest and the smell of dust.

You can't contact EUOAT and ask. USOAT will see it and hail you as a traitor. You can't contact your mother or anyone else on their side, either, for obvious reasons.

The night outside your windows gets darker and darker.

And as the night wears on, you realize that there is nothing 

you can

do.

Day 167:

What now?

Rain hammers the outside of the kitchen window. Your metal spoon clinks against the china bowl.

The breakfast cereal is a little soggy, but the Sheriff assures you that he's been eating it for 10 years. He hasn't had a problem with it.

"So," you say, looking up at the Sheriff after a silent breakfast. "What now?"

He dabs at his mouth with a napkin. "What now?" He echoes. "Well. I go to work, and you go  find a job."

Find a job. Like this is permanent.

The Sheriff shrugs. "I hear Nevermore is hiring," he says, sighing as he gets up from his chair. He sets his dish in the sink with a clank. "They've lost quite a few teachers lately."

You nod. "Hmm."

He looks up. "Or the Weathervane. They're always open to part-timers."

Thunder crashes outside, and he pauses by the window. "Some storm we've been having," he mutters, then turns to rifle through a massive stack of papers on the counter. "Tons of rain reports. I need to get them filed away in my office."

He sighs, shaking his head and picking up a mug of coffee. "Too much to do and too much time."

He pauses, then adds, "I'm sure you understand."

The clock ticks in the hallway.

Sheriff Galpin looks back at you. "Well, Y/N, enjoy your day. I'll be back soon."

You may be the only person that notices how weary his gait looks as he walks out the door. A few minutes later, you hear the sound of the pickup starting.

You tilt your head down to stare into the coffee mug.

Pitter-patter-pitter-pat...

The rain gently taps on the roof, the window you stare out of, the forest melting into a rainy blob of green.

By the time you stash your mug and drive into town, the rain is slowly beginning to drain away. The sky is cloudy. You dart around the cobblestones, carefully sidestepping the puddles with their grim reflections of the gray sky.

The bell rings as you walk into the Weathervane, and you stay with your face buried in your hot drink for an aimless hour before asking about jobs. Lucas turns to you apologetically after placing the call, shaking his head.

The statue's surroundings are lonesome and gray. You kick up a spray of water with your boots, watching how it arcs back down to send the surface of the puddles colliding into sea spray.

Sea spray. You stomp in the puddle, watching how your face ripples back to you. There is no sea here. 

Your hand curls around the remaining severance pay from USOAT in your pocket. They didn't give you much, and you've been trying to make it stretch.

Nevermore will not hire you. You know that. Not after the debacle with their normie teacher, and especially not with USOAT on your resume. 

Someone passes by, and you crouch down to examine the dewy waterdrops on a green bush to avoid talking to them. Their footsteps recede.

So this is your life now. 

It's like nothing you do even matters anymore. 

It doesn't matter where you work- it won't stop USOAT from locking people away and sending assassins after anyone who protests. It doesn't matter what drink you order, or which bush you stare at. Nothing will bring Tyler back. Nothing will bring your father back. Nothing will stop USOAT from doing the same thing, again and again, over and over, with no one to stop them.

It will always be them vs. the monsters. Never them vs. anyone with a chance. 

And there's nothing you can do.

Your breath feels strangled in your throat. You can't do anything.

A tremendous crash startles behind you, and you straighten, still staring at the quivering leaves of the bush before you peel your eyes away. 

The woman had dropped her grocery bags, the contents spilling out into the colorful puddles. The water reflects the streetlights of the gray day as she shakes the water off of a can.

You jump up and begin gathering the rolling cans, the scraps of the brown paper bags littering the square.

"Here, let me help with that," you say, gathering as many of the cans as you can fit into your arms, the aluminum brushing against the wool of your gray sweater. You pass a few of them to her, and as you pass a red can of tomatoes, your eyes meet.

Just for a breath.

"Thank you," she says, a laugh trembling in her throat. "Rainy day, isn't it?"

You nod, wiping your brow with a forearm and taking a look at the clouds. "It's lucky the rain stopped so you could get your things."

She laughs, high and clear like a bell. "No, it's lucky that you were here so we could get my things."

You shake your head, smiling wryly. "You would've managed just fine without me."

She smiles. "But I didn't have to."

You roll your eyes, catching sight of a pack of peas that you missed. You reach down and give it to her. "The outcome would've been the same either way. I didn't do anything."

She takes it, tucking it back into one of the remaining bags. "But you did something," she says, then smiles at me and heads off. "Thank you for the help. I'll see you around town."

She walks away, the footsteps you ignored receding, tapping from her pair of vermilion flats against the puddles that litter the Jericho cobblestones. 

The sky above you is beginning to rain again, but you don't move, watching the woman turn the corner. 

The raindrops pitter-patter on your hair, your being suddenly electrified. You leave the town square behind, running past the decorated panes of the Weathervane and the posters for Pilgrim World. Raindrops slash past your face as you run. The wind carries you, seeming to lift you from the back. The town proper disappears in a whirlwind behind you, the thunder booming in the distance like a lift in your heart as you bolt down the gravel road. Your footsteps thud against the pebbles and dirt as you break off into the forest, down the trail that leads to Sheriff Galpin's home.

You push open the old screen door, listening to it clattering behind you as you burst into the hallway. You pull off your coat, hastily hanging it up on the coat rack, then skid into the kitchen and grab the stack of papers the Sheriff needed filing. You find the files in the garage, and spend the next hour sorting and filing the papers. And when you stand back an hour later, the papers are gone from the counter, all neatly put away.

And then you pack your bags, whip out the pen and legal pad on the counter, and you write the note that suddenly makes sense: 

Welcome back from work! I'm sorry I couldn't wait for you to get home, but there's something I have to do. I organized all of the reports in your filing system before I went. Thank you for letting me stay, Sheriff Galpin.

And, as you step outside the door and order a taxi to the airport, you can smell the smell of after the rain.

T-MINUS 3 CHAPTERS LEFT OF FWT

should I go fast and release them hot off the press, or should I go a little slower and save them back and release them all at once for binge-ability?