“Speaking of your brother,” I say, glancing around, “where are Gabe and Everett?”
“They’re almost done. They should be back soon if you want to wait.”
I shake my head. “Oxford and I will just take the trail; maybe we’ll run into them.”
“Ok, see ya later.”
29
Oxford
Itrot alongside Melody, savoring her soft praise and the way her scent has changed. There’s a lightness to it now, like happiness manifested in olfactory form.
“You’re such a good boy, Oxford,” she tells me as we venture deeper into the trails. “I can’t believe I’m considering staying here in Snowflake Valley. And it’s partly thanks to you.”
I accept the praise with a giddiness I never thought I’d ever experience. If I’m being candid, part of me cannot wait to bounce again, for scientific experimentation, naturally. But Melody staying in Snowflake Valley also brings me many benefits: continued premium bedding, regular strawberry treats, and the elimination of separation anxiety that I absolutely do not experience, though Dr. Hersey might theoretically diagnose in lesser llamas.
“Do you think Everett will be surprised I quit my job?” she asks me.
I tilt my head, considering. Everett’s attachment to Melody is evident in his dilated pupils and an elevated respiratory rate whenever she comes near. His surprise and satisfaction will be substantial.
“You’re right,” she nods, as if I’ve spoken. “He’ll be happy.”
I’ve noticed Melody has developed an uncanny ability to interpret my non-verbal communications. It’s almost as if—
My ears swivel forward. Voices. Male. Unfamiliar. And the distinctive sound of metal striking wood.
Melody stops. “Do you hear that?”
I stare pointedly in the direction of the sounds. Of course, I hear it. My auditory perception far exceeds human capabilities.
“It’s probably Everett and Gabe,” she says, already moving toward the noise.
I hesitate. This is not our usual route. The snow is deeper here, nearly reaching Melody’s knees in some places. My instincts, which are remarkably well-honed despite my domestication, suggest caution.
But Melody forges ahead, and I follow. Someone must ensure her safety, after all.
The voices grow louder. Coarse language peppers their conversation, the rhythmic thwack of axes continuing.
We reach the edge of a small clearing, and Melody abruptly drops to a crouch, pulling me down beside her. I comply, though the posture is undignified.
“Those aren’t our guys,” she whispers, eyes wide.
Indeed not. Four men in dark clothing work efficiently around three snowmobiles. Large tarps are spread on the ground, piled high with freshly cut pine trees.
“They’re stealing trees,” Melody breathes, fumbling in her pocket for her phone. “These must be the thieves Everett was looking for.”
She begins filming, her hands remarkably steady despite her racing heart. I observe the thieves with professional interest. Their movements suggest experience in this illicit activity. The largest one is an alpha, judging by his scent and size, appears to be the leader, barking orders at the others.
“Just a few more seconds of evidence,” Melody whispers, “then we’ll go get help.”
I approve of the leaving part.
Then her phone rings loudly in her hand, the screen lighting up with the name “MARCUS.”
“No, no, no,” she hisses, frantically trying to silence the device.
Too late. The alpha’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing in our direction.