Humans Can Lick Too

The CampfireThe openingFree

A girl was home alone one night. Her parents were out of town, at a wedding, for the whole weekend. She was fifteen, old enough to stay by herself, and she wasn't scared. Not really.

She had her dog with her. A big, gentle old golden retriever, who'd been hers since she was a little kid. He slept under her bed every night. Whenever she woke up scared, from a bad dream, she'd let her hand hang down over the side of the bed, and he'd lick it. And she'd know she was safe. And she'd go back to sleep.

That night, she was watching TV in the living room when a news bulletin came on.

A man had escaped from the county jail. He'd killed two people in a house on the other side of town. The police believed he was still in the area. They warned people to lock their doors and windows.

She did. She checked every door. Every window. She locked them all. She turned off the TV. She called the dog, and they went up to bed.

She lay in bed, and she couldn't sleep. Every sound in the house made her jump. The furnace. The fridge. The wind.

And then she heard something new. A sound from the bathroom, down the hall.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The faucet. She hadn't turned it all the way off. That was all.

She let her hand hang down over the edge of the bed, into the dark. And she felt the warm, wet tongue lick her fingers.

Good. She was safe. She closed her eyes.