"Alright," I finally say, nodding. "Thank you, Hank."
"It's my pleasure to help a beautiful lady," Hank winks at me. I just scoff and dig into my burger-abomination.
If this investigation will last too long, all the grease and sugar will give me diabetes.
After I finish eating, I leave the bar counter to ask other patrons the same questions. While these people are more eager to talk to me than those I've seen in the town earlier, they are of no help.
Instead of any straightforward answers, I get swarmed by dubious compliments. The topic of grass unnerves other workers as much as it does Frank, because snakes, apparently, are *that* scary. Everyone agrees Rose had left the town, but mix up the details of how long she stayed and how many people she went on dates with.
I know the definite answer for the last one—zero. Rose has standards. But men like this, from a place like Willow Creek—they can get this way.
Thankfully, Hank keeps away the most touchy-feely patrons. His authority here is clear, and no one protests his word. I'm sure that he'll be of help when I try to convince the city officials to search for Rose.
When I leave the pub, the evening has fully settled in, and the sun is low on the horizon. The sunsets there must be beautiful, with all the grass as far as the eye can see, and I wish to pause and take it in. My steps towards Agatha's house slow down as I relax a little, enjoying the pure beauty of nature.
The gaunt and haggard man that steps out of an alleyway to block my way is a stark contrast to it. I recognize Jack, the town's drunk, immediately. But that's not why I freeze in place—the knife in his hand, pointed at me, is.
He's still about five feet away. That's close enough to see how shaky his hand is.
"H-hey," I say, trying not to show my fear. Jack makes a step towards me and I step back. "What do you want?"
"You must leave," the man's voice shakes as much as his knife. "Leave! Destroy, despoil, devour. They do, they do. Click-zing-chirp. Click-zing-chirp."
*Uh-oh.* I make another step back and slowly unzip my hoodie. Jack doesn't seem to care, too consumed with whatever happens inside of his mind.
"Jack," I try to speak calmly and slowly, but do not fully succeed on the first account. "Jack, what are you talking about? Who are *they*?"
"They! Them. Leave, girl, leave!" Jack suddenly lurches two steps forward, knife still in hand.
My next actions are not as cool and calculated as I'd wish them to be. My hands are terribly clumsy, and it takes me what feels like an hour to fish the gun out of my pocket. But when I point it at Jack, he's still too far away to straight out stab me.
Even the madman stops in his tracks at the side of the gun pointed at him. The safety is still on, but he doesn't notice.
"Drop the knife, Jack. Drop. The. Knife."
He does just that, to my surprise, and hides his face in his arms. "I'm sorry. I-I can't. Tried, but I can't. Tell him it's not my fault! Not our fault."
Before I can ask anything, Jack turns on his heel and runs away, stumbling and sobbing. I watch him hide behind a corner and only then finally exhale.
*God. This place is insane.*
It takes a few minutes to calm down my thumping heart. Then I notice the knife Jack dropped. It's a switchblade, small, but in a surprisingly good state, considering Jack's own. I bend to pick it up, wondering if I should return it to the man.
No, better not give the man anything sharp. Therefore... The knife is mine now, I suppose.
I hide it in a pocket of my jeans. A second weapon makes me feel gradually more confident.
*If this goes on like that, in two days, I will end up carrying an entire arsenal. Or drinking sedatives like tea.*
After this incident, the evening is blissfully quiet. Some people move around the streets, more now than during the day, but they all are as skittish of me as before. Doesn't stop me from waving at them, hoping to find at least someone with a different attitude. I wonder if locals only talk to visitors in the pub for some reason.
One time I pause when I see a dark silhouette on the other side of the street, but it turns out to be just another local, who throws me a gloom look before hurrying past.
Not another hallucination, thankfully. One was enough. Though I wonder what do I call a hallucination of a hallucination, which is not a thought I'd think I would ever pursue. And I'm a writer, I get to explore weird topics sometimes.
This place wears down on me. The anxiety of the day is replaced with tiredness that seeps into my bones.
It's a blessing when Agatha isn't around to greet me. I smile at her snoozing pug and go to my room. The desire to just fall into my bed is here, but I force myself to take a shower first. Sleep takes me in as soon as my head touches the pillow.
When I open my eyes again, it's already day, and I stand amidst the endless sea of grass.