The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(47)

“A parent should never bury a child. It’s not the way nature intended. I wish you’d been here, too, son, but it would’ve put you in danger, and I don’t believe I’d survive really burying you, too.”

“I promise you won’t have to, G-pa. And you won’t be alone, either. I’ll keep calling, just like I have been, and when we get this mess figured out we’ll be together,” Tate continued, lifting his voice because he hated the sadness that had crept into his g-pa’s tone. “Hey, you’d really like it up here. It’s super green and there’re lots of plants and stuff—biology is practically everywhere you look.”

“How’re you outfitted for dogs? You know I don’t go anywhere without my Bugs-a-Million.”

Tate grinned. Bugs-a-Million was G-pa’s enormous, shaggy Irish wolfhound who was attached to him at the hip. “Strawberry Fields is about twenty-five acres. Perfect for Bugsy. Hey, G-pa, what number is this one?” G-pa always had an Irish wolfhound, and he always named her Bugs-a-Million, after his favorite bookstore that had been letting him bring the giant canines into their store for more years than Tate had been alive.

“This is Bugs-a-Million number five, and I do believe she’s the smartest one yet. Just weighed her yesterday and she’s comin’ in at a slim one hundred thirty-five.”

“G-pa, that’s not a dog. That’s a person.” Tate laughed.

“Nope. Dogs are always better than people.”

“I’m not gonna argue that, G-pa. Hey, I gotta go. If I’m gone too long Foster will worry.”

“Boy, you gotta tell her the truth,” G-pa said.

“I hear you, G-pa. I will. I’ll call you again as soon as I can. Love you.”

“Love you, too, son. Stay safe. Promise?”

“Absolutely.”





15


TATE


“Foster? I’m back from the store! Hey, I stopped at that Bella Organic winery place on the way back and got a major haul of those little flying saucer–looking squash things you like so much. If you cook them in that coconut oil and salt concoction that makes them so good, I’ll light the grill and slap on that plank of salmon I found at the grocery, and I’ll bet I can find some ripe tomatoes and peppers in the garden, too.” Tate paused as he put away the last of the perishables in the fridge to peer back through the kitchen and down the hallway. “Foster!” he shouted.

Is she in the Batcave? Even then she usually comes running when I get home from the store. Not for me, of course, but for food. Foster does love her luncheon, which is what she calls every single meal. At first Tate thought that was weird. Now he thought it was cute, and he was starting to call breakfast “first luncheon.”

When there was still no sound from Foster, worry began to niggle at Tate’s mind. Ignoring the stuff that wouldn’t go bad if it was left out, he started toward the hallway, but a movement outside the breakfast nook window caught his attention. Tate stopped to move aside the lacy half curtain and his breath hitched as he caught sight of Foster.

She was in the back pasture—the one behind the house that adjoined the little creek they’d discovered running through the rear of the property. Foster was standing in front of what looked like a wall of willows. Her arms were raised as if she was a conductor. The trees were her symphony. And they were playing beautiful air music for her.

Tate hurried out the back door, crossed the porch, and skipped all the stairs. He sprinted to the back pasture gate, which he climbed quietly and easily. Then he slowed so that he didn’t startle Foster, under the pretense of not wanting her hands to blast him with another air cannon. But the truth was closer to his heart. Tate liked watching her, especially when she was air weaving.

That’s what Foster had started calling what she was doing with air. They both realized that they could see air currents. It was crazy, but there were highways of different currents of air all around and in the sky above. When he and Foster concentrated and called to their element, they became visible. Sorta.

Tate drew a deep breath and with that breath he began to think about air … wind … breezes …

And it happened! Suddenly he could see more than Foster moving her hands like a graceful maestro while the long, veil-like branches followed her, mimicked her. He could see the shimmering thermals of currents that flowed up, down, and around the trees, Foster, the waving grasses—the entire world.

Tate breathed deeply again. “Air.” He said the word softly, reverently, like a small, secret prayer and a slight ribbon of glistening current shifted direction and sweetly came to him, bringing with it Foster’s voice.

She was singing! Well, no. More accurately Foster was humming and air was moving the wall of willow branches in time to her song. What he could catch of the melody was familiar, and Tate was trying to place the song when Foster started trilling,

“Tweetly-tweetly-dee, tweetly-dee-dee!

Tweetly-tweetly-dee, tweetly-dee-dee!”



Tate’s eyes widened and he held his breath as he listened. Her voice was sweet and strong and filled with a lightness he’d never heard in her words before. Man, Foster can sing!

She played around with the melody that Tate was still trying to place as air followed her direction. And then Foster started singing. Softly, at first.