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Chapter 8 – Hilda Jo
She reached out for the shotgun that night and looked out the window into the inky dark to make sure she knew where she was for the third time. Sleeping in someone else’s house and not her own took getting used to when sleepovers ended decades ago.
The cadence of Irene’s snores lulled just a bit, and then she suddenly stopped, and spoke with a dry rasp, “Why don’t you go on home. I’ll be all right.”
Hilda felt for the outline of the oblong shells in the pocket of her blue chenille robe. “I don’t know how you can hear me wrestle over your own snoring.”
There was silence after that. Hilda turned her head toward Irene’s bed to see if she’d heard the insult. The snoring began again.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” she said to herself and then sent her hand out to the ceiling as if someone up there might answer her back. Hilda knew she was going the be the tired one in the morning. And wasting time staring at the ceiling was something she’d learned long ago only extended a lousy mood. So she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the couch. Which caused Mitch to jangle his collar. His eyes glowed in the dark.
“Go back to sleep, Mitch. One of us needs rest for tomorrow. Might as well be you,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if he heard her over Irene’s helicopter impersonation.