mouth went dry.
Tigers.
She blinked. Impossible. But they were still there, and coming closer: two tigers, tigers , like you would find at a circus. Massive square heads and huge jaws, bodies muscled and rippling, coats glossy in the sun.
Anne whistled sharply. Heather jumped. Both tigers swung their heads toward the sound, and Heather lost her breath. Their eyes were flat, incurious, and old —impossibly old, as though instead of looking forward, their eyes saw back to a distant past.
They ambled up to the fence, so close that Heather stepped backward, quickly, terrified. So close she could smell them, feel the heat of their bodies.
“How?” she finally managed to ask, which was not quite what she meant, but good enough. A thousand thoughts were colliding in her head.
“More rescues,” Anne said calmly. “They get sold on the black market. Sold, then abandoned when they’re too big, or put down when there’s no one to care for them.” As she spoke, she reached her hand through a gap in the fence and actually petted one of the tigers—like it was an overgrown house cat. When she saw Heather gaping, she laughed. “They’re all right once they’ve been fed,” she said. “Just don’t try and cuddle up when they’re hungry.”
“I don’t—I won’t have to go in there, will I?” Heather was rooted to the ground, paralyzed with fear and wonder. They were so big, so close. One of the tigers yawned, and she could make out the sharp curve of its teeth, white as bone.
“No, no,” Anne said. “Most of the time, I just chuck the food in through the gate. Here, I’ll show you.”
Anne walked her to the padlocked gate, which to Heather looked alarmingly flimsy. On the other side of the fence, the tigers followed—languidly, as though by coincidence. Heather wasn’t fooled, though. That’s how predators were. They sat back and waited, lured you into feeling safe, and then they pounced.
She wished Bishop were here. She did not wish Nat were here. Nat would flip. She hated big animals of any kind. Even poodles made her jumpy.
When they turned their backs on the tigers’ pen and returned to the house, Heather’s stomach started to unknot, although she still had the impression the tigers were watching her, and kept picturing their sharp claws slotting into her back.
Anne showed her where she stored all the keys to the sheds, hanging from neatly labeled hooks in the “mudroom,” as she called it, where Heather could also find spare rubber boots like the kind Anne wore, mosquito repellent, gardening shears, and suntan and calamine lotions.
After that, Heather went to work. She fed the chickens while Anne instructed her how to scatter the feed, and laughed out loud when the birds piled together, pecking frantically, like one enormous, feathered, many-headed creature.
Anne showed her how to chase the roosters back in the pen before letting out the dogs to run around, and Heather was surprised that Muppet seemed to remember her, and immediately ran several times around her ankles, as though in greeting.
Then there was mucking the stables (as Heather had suspected, this involved horse poop, but it actually wasn’t as bad as she’d thought), and brushing the horses’ coats with special, stiff-bristled brushes. Then helping Anne prune the wisteria, which had begun to colonize the north side of the house. By this time, Heather was sweating freely, even with her sleeves rolled up. The sun was high and hot, and her back ached from bending over and straightening up again.
But she was happy, too—happier than she’d been in forever. She could almost forget that the rest of the world existed, that she’d ever been dumped by Matt Hepley or made the Jump in the first place. Panic. She could forget Panic.
She was surprised when Anne called an end to the day, saying it was almost one o’clock. While Heather waited for Bishop to return for her, Anne fixed her a tuna sandwich with mayonnaise she’d made
Tigers.
She blinked. Impossible. But they were still there, and coming closer: two tigers, tigers , like you would find at a circus. Massive square heads and huge jaws, bodies muscled and rippling, coats glossy in the sun.
Anne whistled sharply. Heather jumped. Both tigers swung their heads toward the sound, and Heather lost her breath. Their eyes were flat, incurious, and old —impossibly old, as though instead of looking forward, their eyes saw back to a distant past.
They ambled up to the fence, so close that Heather stepped backward, quickly, terrified. So close she could smell them, feel the heat of their bodies.
“How?” she finally managed to ask, which was not quite what she meant, but good enough. A thousand thoughts were colliding in her head.
“More rescues,” Anne said calmly. “They get sold on the black market. Sold, then abandoned when they’re too big, or put down when there’s no one to care for them.” As she spoke, she reached her hand through a gap in the fence and actually petted one of the tigers—like it was an overgrown house cat. When she saw Heather gaping, she laughed. “They’re all right once they’ve been fed,” she said. “Just don’t try and cuddle up when they’re hungry.”
“I don’t—I won’t have to go in there, will I?” Heather was rooted to the ground, paralyzed with fear and wonder. They were so big, so close. One of the tigers yawned, and she could make out the sharp curve of its teeth, white as bone.
“No, no,” Anne said. “Most of the time, I just chuck the food in through the gate. Here, I’ll show you.”
Anne walked her to the padlocked gate, which to Heather looked alarmingly flimsy. On the other side of the fence, the tigers followed—languidly, as though by coincidence. Heather wasn’t fooled, though. That’s how predators were. They sat back and waited, lured you into feeling safe, and then they pounced.
She wished Bishop were here. She did not wish Nat were here. Nat would flip. She hated big animals of any kind. Even poodles made her jumpy.
When they turned their backs on the tigers’ pen and returned to the house, Heather’s stomach started to unknot, although she still had the impression the tigers were watching her, and kept picturing their sharp claws slotting into her back.
Anne showed her where she stored all the keys to the sheds, hanging from neatly labeled hooks in the “mudroom,” as she called it, where Heather could also find spare rubber boots like the kind Anne wore, mosquito repellent, gardening shears, and suntan and calamine lotions.
After that, Heather went to work. She fed the chickens while Anne instructed her how to scatter the feed, and laughed out loud when the birds piled together, pecking frantically, like one enormous, feathered, many-headed creature.
Anne showed her how to chase the roosters back in the pen before letting out the dogs to run around, and Heather was surprised that Muppet seemed to remember her, and immediately ran several times around her ankles, as though in greeting.
Then there was mucking the stables (as Heather had suspected, this involved horse poop, but it actually wasn’t as bad as she’d thought), and brushing the horses’ coats with special, stiff-bristled brushes. Then helping Anne prune the wisteria, which had begun to colonize the north side of the house. By this time, Heather was sweating freely, even with her sleeves rolled up. The sun was high and hot, and her back ached from bending over and straightening up again.
But she was happy, too—happier than she’d been in forever. She could almost forget that the rest of the world existed, that she’d ever been dumped by Matt Hepley or made the Jump in the first place. Panic. She could forget Panic.
She was surprised when Anne called an end to the day, saying it was almost one o’clock. While Heather waited for Bishop to return for her, Anne fixed her a tuna sandwich with mayonnaise she’d made
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