The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets by Diana Wagman Read Free Book Online Page A

a burial plot; at any moment her hand would shoot up through the ground and grab his wrist. He bumped the bed as he backed away from it. She moaned and moved a little, the blanket trembling over her. It was just a blanket. She was still alive. He folded the blanket off her face gingerly, unwilling to touch her. He left the room and shut the door.
    He paced in the hallway. He could smell her sweat on his hands, metallic and thick with blood. Women were so bloody. She smelled like the trashcan did in the bathroom at home every month.
    He decided to search head injuries and fainting online. Then he had to check in with the chat room. It was 10:30 in the morning. He had been away from his computer for too long. Three hours without putting a word into cyberspace was definitely notnormal for him. His reptile buddies would be wondering where he was. He was waiting to hear about a female with a clutch of eggs that was possibly available. Plus, he needed to see his girlfriend’s picture again. He needed to revel again in what she looked like. She could always calm him down. She made this all worthwhile.
    He hurried to his bedroom and got his laptop. He carried it back to the floor outside her door. If she woke, if she even moved, he would hear her. He opened his computer and smiled at the picture of the most beautiful woman in the world. The woman he loved. He had downloaded her photo as his screen-saver.
    â€œHey babe,” he hummed. “See you soon.”
    Before he went to the reptile forums, he searched head injuries. He clicked on the first website that came up. Fracture. Paralysis. Trouble breathing. His heart was shrinking in his chest. “If the victim is unconscious, do not move them in case of severe neck or spine injury. Immediately call 911.” Too late, he thought. Too late. He should never have let her go to the bathroom. He should have made her shit her pants. He slammed his fist into his thigh. He punched himself in the face. He was an idiot, stupid, a buttwipe!
    â€œGimme a hot dog, buttwipe.”
    It was raining. The canvas roof of the hot dog stand billowed in the wind collecting the water and then releasing it. The intermittent stream drenched ten-year-old Oren’s left shoulder as he fished in the cooker. He had forgotten his jacket. His T-shirt was already half soaked. He handed over the hot dog and bun on a flimsy red and white paper tray. The meat had been rolling in the hot water since three o’clock that afternoon. The skin was blistered and glistening with fat.
    â€œThat’ll be two seventy-five,” he said, but the teenager just laughed.
    â€œIn the fucking rain? Are you kidding?”
    â€œTwo seventy-five,” Oren said again, his young voice getting softer. “Please?” His dad would kill him if he gave anything away for free.
    â€œFuck you,” the boy said. He was long and skinny with a mountain range of white-capped pimples across his forehead. He took a big bite and stuck out his food-covered tongue at Oren as his friends walked up.
    â€œHey,” he said to them, “This kid is giving away free hot dogs.”
    â€œNo,” Oren declared. “No, I’m not.”
    The teenagers swarmed the booth, like monkeys, climbing on the wheels, swinging from the corner struts. One of them opened the door and came inside. Oren waved his hot dog fork.
    â€œAre you trying to poke me?” The boy was indignant. “Me? The customer?”
    â€œGet away!” Oren wailed.
    â€œHot dogs!” the boy cried. He grabbed the fork from Oren and began spearing dogs and tossing them to the others. Some of them landed in the wet dirt. The boys laughed.
    â€œStop it,” Oren tried. He wondered where all the carnies had gone. The midway was empty. The cotton candy girl had gone back to her trailer an hour ago. The Tilt-A-Whirl was closed. Even the Haunted House was shuttered for the night, but Oren couldn’t leave until his father said so.