Mind Games

“Wait!”

Ty scooped Bray up on the run. The dog paused, looked back, wagged. Then kept going at a slower pace.

“Bunk!” Bray insisted.

“Yeah, okay.”

Since the dog kept slowing, looking back, Ty figured following made sense.

He saw another garden—vegetable—a birdbath formed out of a three-headed dragon, more flowers, colorful bottles hanging from trees, then …

She had snug pants on those long legs, and her hair in a braid. On the grass in her bare feet, she did a kind of fluid dance.

With a sword.

With a two-handed grip, she sliced it through the air, pivoted, stabbed, spun, and swung it over her head, brought it down.

When the sun hit the blade, it gleamed.

Sweat dampened her white shirt between the shoulder blades as the muscles in her arms flexed. His neighbor, he noted, was ripped.

However much effort it took to dance with the sword, her face showed none.

She looked, Ty thought, oddly peaceful.

Well behind her, chickens pecked away in the yard of what looked like a chicken mansion.

She spun again, and saw them.

And said, “Oh!”

“You have a sword.”

“Yes, I do.” She sheathed it. “I was just practicing.”

“With a sword.”

“Yes.” Using the thick band on her wrist, she dabbed at the sweat on her forehead. Smiling, she walked toward them. “Good morning. How was your first night?”

“We slept like rocks, probably because we ate like kings first. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She took the basket.

She’s holding a wicker basket, Ty thought, and has a sword on her hip.

Who is this woman?

“I could use some lemonade. How about I get us all some lemonade?”

“Chickens!” Bray tried to wiggle down.

“You can go see them. They’re very friendly.”

“Like the dog?” Ty asked.

“And a lot smaller. I’ll be right back.”

What the hell, Ty thought, and set Bray down. His son ran off toward the chickens with the dog beside him as if they’d been friends since birth.