Disclaimer: The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm only borrowing her characters, not profiting from this story.

A/N: Now it looks like this story will have at least one more chapter. Possibly two. Thanks for reading! ;)

Gaping

The whole crisis began, unfolded, and ended while Eric and I were enjoying an after-sex nap. We fell asleep hard and fast, with jumbled limbs, sweating against each other. Whatever it was that woke us—the mailman, a passing car, a barking dog—made us startle, at once aware that untangling ourselves would be tricky. First this arm, then that leg, and so on. Like puzzle knots.

Off in the kitchen, Eric's cell phone was signaling he had a new message. I stretched while he sat up and rubbed his face, checking for stubble. Still dazed and sleepy, he gave me a glance before committing to getting up. I turned on my side, toward the early afternoon light filtering through his blinds, and heard him making his way through his house. When he returned, he was holding not one, but two cell phones.

Andy Bellefleur had left a string of messages, which pieced together to make this story: my great grandfather had been picked up wandering half-dressed alongside the parish road, disoriented. Understanding the situation all too well from his own family's struggles, Andy had been able to keep my great grandfather settled enough to hold him there at the station while he tracked down Claude, who'd eventually gone to retrieve him.

Of course, Bud Dearborn had to pipe in too with his message: "Listen, Sookie, I don't know what that Claude has going on over there with that strip club at all hours of the night, but you need to do something if he isn't. We can't have people like your…like Mr. Brigant wandering the streets. At least five people called us to report there was a madman exposing himself before we were able to track him down. Now, someone's going to get hurt here."

Bud was probably exaggerating the story in that way he does when people don't fit into his limited view of the world. In any case, we were lucky that Andy had intervened and discouraged Bud from arresting him. And that Andy hadn't dumped my grandfather off at the ER, where he would have gotten thoroughly confused by still more strange people and noises and commotion. Lots of poking and prodding, all for nothing, with no better prognosis.

Eric waited while I sorted through my messages, and then listened while I told him the parts of the story he couldn't gather from his own messages. A bad feeling I'd been doing something I shouldn't have been doing settled on me. Maybe because of my earlier conversation with Eric about Dr. Ludwig. Maybe because I'd been so unavailable during the crisis. Maybe because I knew Bud Dearborn was right—that we needed to do a better job keeping my great grandfather safe. Claude and I, like it or not, were going to have to work together.

I rose and went on a scouting mission for my clothes. I tidied up the kitchen—stuck our cups in the dishwasher, put the empty tissue box in recycling, wiped off the counter, and shined the kitchen faucet—before I grabbed my purse and met Eric back in his bedroom.

"I'll get you that contact information," he said.

"All right, sure." I started to turn to leave, but had an impulse to kiss him again. He was still looking so lovely, all tousled and sleepy-eyed and spent. Cheek creased from his pillowcase.

I pressed against him, t-shirt rasping bare skin, and met his lips with a long, hard kiss.

Couldn't we just stay in his house, holed away, while the rest of the world gulped and churned? Order takeout. Watch movies. Other fun stuff, too. Where was a good storm when you needed one? My hands traveled south to grope his fine butt.

He pulled away from our kiss as he peered at me. "I'll call you," he said, continuing to watch my face.

"Okay." I unwrapped my arms from him. "Thanks. See you soon."

vV\/vv\/Vv

On my way home, I stopped by my great grandfather's house. I nearly threw my arms around him, so happy I was to see him safe and sound at home. He'd had a shower—his hair was still wet and his clothes clean, but ill-fitting—and was sitting at the kitchen table with a package of Oreo cookies in front of him. Claude, who was working at his laptop, barely gave me a glance.

"I know you," my great grandfather said.

I swallowed hard, stood up straight and sturdy. "Yes, I'm Sookie."

"No…" He looked lost, searching. Maybe I reminded him of someone else from his long-ago past. I'd come late in his life, touched only the surface, which had been worn down to a thin, skipping veneer. On days like today, I was simply rubbed away.

And then suddenly he brightened. "Blonds have more fun, wouldn't you say?" His gentle touch on my arm turned into more of a stroke, while his other hand reached up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen from my ponytail.

I flinched. "You're having a snack," I said, hoping to distract both of us.

"Don't even bother telling me it's unhealthy," Claude said, bored at his computer. "I can't get him to eat anything else."

I shrugged. Claude and I agreed on this one. "May I join you?" I asked my great grandfather. When he didn't answer, I poured us some glasses of milk.

"He doesn't remember anything from today," Claude said. "And I already got the lecture from Bud Dearborn about keeping closer tabs on him, securing our doors, purchasing one of those tracker devices." He laughed. "Like a fucking dog collar. That's rich."

For his safety, of course, but our grandfather would be appalled.

"We're worried about you getting lost and hurt," I explained to my great grandfather, sitting across from him. This wasn't a conversation to be having as though he weren't here; we had to at least try.

He took another cookie. "I don't get lost."

Claude laughed and shook his head. "Willful. Always willful."

I ignored him and spoke directly to my great grandfather. "I'm happy to go out in the woods with you any time. Call me. Or Claude can tell me. Or we can set up a few times every week."

He looked off into space, chewing. I'd said too much at once.

"I like going for walks with you in the woods," I tried.

"I like the woods," he said mildly, and I couldn't help but feel rebuffed. I shook it off.

"Good. Just tell someone when you want to go, okay? Claude or me."

My grandfather looked from Claude to me, as though confused as to what we were all doing here. Claude smirked. My grandfather helped himself to another cookie and went back to chewing.

And then there was a lot of crunching noises. And clicking of the keyboard. I'd tried to keep my head straight, but still, I couldn't stop the sad, niggling thought that this visit was more stiff introduction than joyful reunion. I swiped at some stray salt grains scattered on the table and considered having another cookie.

"It's getting hot out there," I finally said.

"Is it, now?" he asked, as though he hadn't spent the morning wandering through the haze.

"Yes, looks like we'll have an early, hot summer."

"Is that what the Farmer's Almanac predicts?" Claude asked in a sarcastic tone.

Once again, I ignored him. "Let's just hope it doesn't burn out early and stays hot enough to keep those gators active during hunting season."

My grandfather said nothing. Claude, meanwhile, seemed to be enjoying my fruitless efforts.

I decided to have another cookie. I opened an Oreo and licked the filling before popping the wafers whole in my mouth, one at a time. Across from me, Great Grandfather had his own rhythm going, choosing cookies from the middle of the row and eating them in three bites, one after another.

"Those go straight to your thighs, you know," Claude commented.

I had another one.

My grandfather chuckled and winked while reaching for another cookie for himself. I tried to steel myself; his friendly gesture was a bit of a trap, a link to our past that could be taken back at any moment. We were two strangers, really—an old man and a young woman eating a package of Oreo cookies together.

Well, why not, I asked myself after about six more cookies. Why get hung up on the past when we're having a nice moment now? And later this week, we could even take a trip for ice cream. Maybe this kind of life wasn't such a bad one; he didn't seem unhappy or discontented, like Velda Cannon. In fact, he was still smiling.

"Dairy Queen makes Oreo Blizzards," I said aloud.

His smile morphed into a broad chocolate grin, with Oreo crumbs stuck to his teeth. Claude outright laughed.

And suddenly it felt so wrong. So wrong for him.

I had another cookie, but it wasn't the same, and not because I was uncomfortably full.

My grandfather stood abruptly, agitated. "I need to go," he said, and started to walk for the front door.

"We need to stay together. I'll go for a walk with you." I stood with him. "You can show me the woods."

He had a pained expression on his face, and it was only then that I looked down to his feet and noticed their state from his earlier wandering.

"Oh! You're hurt! Let me get some Band-Aids." His cuts had been cleaned, but I worried if they were left uncovered, they'd hurt and get infected.

When he started to walk away from me, I touched his shoulder. He jerked. "Let me go!"

"It's all right." I tried to keep my voice steady.

Claude had stood up from his computer. "Now what?"

"I need to go!" Great Grandfather said with such force, I thought he'd walk straight through the door.

"All right," I said. "Let's go." Maybe it would help if we were simply moving.

I turned for a moment to see whether there was anything like flip flops or sandals that my grandfather could slip on his feet. That's when I heard Claude start to laugh. "Nice," he chuckled.

And when I looked, my great grandfather was standing in a puddle of urine, his trouser leg soaked.

"Good job, Sookie," Claude said. "Way to go. Thanks for the help."

"I'm sorry," I said, ignoring Claude. "You were trying to tell me you needed to use the restroom."

"I'm wet," he said. He'd settled, though he still looked confused.

"Yes, let's get you some dry pants."

"All right." He started to unzip his trousers right there in the kitchen.

"Oops." I stopped him. "Claude can help you get changed in your bedroom."

Claude's attention had returned to the computer. "Claude?" I prompted.

He rolled his eyes. "Niall, go get changed."

"I should do that now?"

Claude waved at him and nodded.

Great Grandfather looked at me, confused. Claude had picked up his cell phone.

"Let's go upstairs," I said, linking my great grandfather's arm in mine. I guessed I'd just have to get over my discomfort with his nudity and deflect any more flirtations. Brisk and business-like. We could manage. He would have hated being so dependent on this kind of help, though. It wasn't what he'd wanted for himself. Oh, who was I kidding? Nobody wanted this for himself. But my great grandfather had had an extra big dose of pride and dignity; he'd been an elegant man who hadn't ever wanted to lose that image.

And anyway, at the moment, we simply didn't have a choice.

Once we were in his bedroom, which reeked of urine, I guided him through the steps of removing his clothes. He outright refused a shower, but seemed to have a system of sitting on a stool in the bathroom and washing up with a washcloth and soap. It seemed thorough and safe enough, so I let him to it while I rooted out the main source of the smell—a pile of wet laundry in his closet. I gathered it to start a load of wash, along the way stopping to light into Claude.

"We need to talk about this. He needs help."

Claude shoved his computer aside. Finally. Though I'd definitely stirred up a hornet's nest. "No shit. What do you think I do with most of my day?"

"I can't tell since his bedroom smells like a toilet. That's no way to live."

"You take him, then."

"He'll get confused by that and you know it."

Immediately, I was ashamed over how we were battling over our grandfather as though he were a living hot potato. Taking a deep breath, I tried again. "I can see how much work it is to take care of him." Then I paused to let that sink in. "I'll come to spend more time with him. And I'll help pay to hire someone." I'd done some figuring on how far Claudine's legacy would stretch. We had about a year or so, depending on medical expenses. After that, we'd have to look into selling his house. Or at least some of the land. Unless…

No. That thought needed to be shoved aside for now.

"Go ahead," he said. "But I'll tell you I had a coworker watch him once and all Niall wanted to do the whole time he was here was leave the house. He kept trying to leave, like he was in the wrong place. He's more settled on his own."

I felt sick to my stomach. "No. He can't be here on his own. You leave him here alone when you go to work at night?"

"It's at night. He sleeps. If I didn't get him up at noon, he'd sleep all day too."

"I'll come," I said right away. "I'll sleep over, keep an eye on things. It won't be perfect because I won't be able to get here until after midnight on some nights. But I can cut back on my evening hours. Try to work more early shifts." The tips would stink, at a time when I needed more, not less.

"Be my guest," he gestured toward the sofa, and then returned his attention to his laptop, as though the whole problem were solved. It would still leave the daytime. Claude would need to sleep, too, which would leave a lot of time when Great Grandfather would be left to his own devices. I guessed that was when he'd done all of his forest maintenance. Bugger, I'd need to find him a home health aide tout de suite.

There's another item for my list…Unless…

And there it was again—my grandfather's request to die—fresh and new and frightening. It was a terrible thing to consider, now that I had the means, as the keeping of him got harder.

I set to work, not ready to think about any of these ideas at the moment. I found a bucket and mop to clean the floor upstairs, where his wet laundry had lain. It was too hot to open the windows, but I grabbed a fan from downstairs to circulate the air. Then I pulled out some laundered clothes and helped him get dressed. And then while I was at it, I changed his sheets and dusted, keeping up a running commentary since dead silence seemed impolite.

"I like percale sheets best," I said. "Simple percale sheets. I don't care what Oprah says about thread count. Anything else doesn't seem like a sheet. Like satin. Satin seems weird. Flannel too. I can't hardly imagine needing flannel, but I suppose up north it gets cold enough for long enough. Maybe I'd use flannel then. And I bet it'd be cozy."

Great Grandfather stood and watched me through it all as I worked from side to side. He kept out of my way, moving as needed, which told me he was paying attention well enough.

"My gran always insisted on hospital corners. And she'd check, too. If it wasn't made right, she'd send us back to fix it. Jason always tried to hide his messy sheets with his bedspread, but Gran always caught him."

"Jason," my grandfather laughed.

I stopped and looked. Had a flicker of recognition crossed his face?

He laughed again, shaking his head.

"Want to sit here with me?" I sat on the edge of the bed and patted. Maybe we'd have a moment of real conversation and connection; I had to admit how much I'd like that.

"Jason is stupid," he said as he sat next to me, so close that I had to stop myself from sliding against him on the mattress. His smile had vanished, along with any hope of a bittersweet moment. Just because he was sick, didn't mean he'd turned kind or meek.

Nor was it any reason to coddle him. "That's not a nice thing to say," I said.

"Ah, but it's true."

"All right, but he's still your great grandson, as much as I'm your great granddaughter." Maybe only a hair's breadth away from being rejected, too.

He shrugged and looked around the room blankly.

"He is," I pressed, even though I knew better than to argue with someone with dementia.

"I know, Dearest One."

A shiver ran through me. It felt wrong thinking uncharitable thoughts about him—like the way he could be so selective with his kindness and compassion—at the same time I was supposed to be seeing to his death. Gave me the creeps, actually. And now I was going to pass up this little chance to be with him and get out of here, while I could still do so with self-possession.

"I need to go," I said. "I still have to work the evening shift at Merlotte's."

He leaned toward me to kiss me, and in a flicker of a confused moment, he looked like he was aiming for my lips. I had to turn my cheek to him to make sure I got the kind of kiss designed for a granddaughter.

"I love you dear," he said, in a tone that seemed not quite meant for me. And then his eyes widened as he focused on my cheek.

I scooted off the bed before this could progress any further. "Goodbye, Grandfather. I'll see you soon."

"Yes, come back and see me soon," he said.

vV\/vv\/Vv

After a brief stop at home in which I tried to decompress, I figured it was a good thing that I'd have the whole evening at work to run around and burn off some nervous energy.

But things don't always work out the way you plan.

Of course everyone in the bar had already heard about my great grandfather's morning adventures. You would have thought that the sight of an old man wandering around our community half naked would have been enough to feed even the most salacious of appetites, but still some people saw fit to embellish.

According to one popular theory, my great grandfather had been out hunting for roadside gators to make himself a new set of clothes of head-to-toe gator skins. He'd worn a pair of discarded work gloves to protect himself from deadly metals, muttered something about a missing portal to another land, and worried that someone was following him.

Actually, I didn't know how many of those things were true. I did my best to block it out, even as every blessed soul in the bar was interested in "how my great grandfather was doing," some out of morbid curiosity, others out of genuine caring.

"He's safe at home now," I told them all. "About as well as can be expected. Alzheimer's is a terrible disease."

My great grandfather deserved his privacy, but people needed to know something about what he was facing. Otherwise, how would they understand? Other Alzheimer's sufferers like old Mr. Bellefleur had been kept in Belle Rive to his dying day. Or what about Mr. Norris, their former mayor? Secluded in a nursing home. I hadn't known it myself.

Now they were saying things like, "He was always a little kooky, wasn't he?" and using his recent antics to prop up whatever pet theories they had about him.

"It was all those years he spent in that workshop of his out in the middle of nowhere."

"People with Alzheimer's have brains that are changing, that don't work the same way they used to," I said. "You wouldn't expect someone with an injured knee to walk the same way." Some people just stared back. Others shared stories. "Isn't it terrible what happened to Mrs. Cannon?" Maxine Fortenberry noted, which reminded me I'd picked up a stuffed cat to take her.

In between what was developing into an Alzheimer's education project, I was keeping an eye on some other smoldering hot spots. For starters, Terry was behind the bar, absently filling Jane Bodehouse's glass every time she asked. As a result, she'd reached the slurring stage.

I'd called Marvin and had asked Terry to cut her off, but then Callista came in and engaged her in conversation. And Marvin never showed up.

"What is a corn nut, Jane?" Callista asked.

Jane's eyes lit up. "Tha's wha' I say! Wha-the-hell's-a cornnnnut?" She dug around in the Chex Mix bowl. "Wher'r' the peanuts? I wa'my money back!"

Meanwhile, Terry was looking extra spacey. "He's still out there, Sookie." He'd pulled me aside.

"Where?! Did you see him?"

He shook his head, his expression tightening. "No. I just…feel him creeping around. Like he's trying to taunt us."

I braced myself. I'd felt him too. "That ol' gator's just looking for some food or a mate, plain and simple." I felt a little silly saying it out loud, but I'd said it to myself often enough. "Don't take it personal. I know…it's hard. We'll get him, though, all right? I haven't given up yet."

He nodded. But Terry wouldn't be appeased this evening. "When," he asked me bluntly.

"Well, I'll be out there again soon." I hedged. "Eric took me for a fly over, and I got some new ideas about where to bait for him, to try to avoid drawing every blessed gator in the area. Bill Compton said he'd help me hang a few strategically-placed lines. Got to be careful with that, though, because other people will spy them." We'd have to do the whole operation at night—hang them, wait, and then collect them all between sunset and sunrise. On a night when I didn't have to work or have a sleepover at my grandfather's house.

That seemed to settle him well enough, though it made me more anxious as I considered exactly when I was gonna have the time to give up sleep on a night I didn't have to be at Claude's. And then as I turned to check on some tables, Mrs. Quinn entered the bar and sat right near Callista and Jane Bodehouse.

I ducked into the kitchen.

"I hear her," Lafayette said, not even turning from the stovetop.

"Who?" I asked.

"You know who. Miss Callie-bunga." Lafayette was strangely subdued this evening, moving fluidly, almost resignedly, without his typical hop and bounce. He stirred a pitcher of concentrated tea with a pot of cold water. We went through gallons and gallons of the stuff every day. A pinch of baking soda, he'd told me one time, takes out the bitterness.

I remembered helping my Gran make a pot of sweet tea, standing at the kitchen counter as she poured a copper-bottomed pan of hot water into her extra-large, thick glass measuring cup, its markings worn down to a faded pink, tea bag tags dangling over the sides. Never wring the bags, she'd told me. Another tip to mellow bitterness.

I had a little laugh to myself, thinking of Callista, not only stirring the pot, but wringing out the worst in all of us. No, that wasn't funny, really. What in the devil did Sam see in her? Oh, I knew, but…honestly.

"What did you hear about what she got goin' on out there at Jan Fowler's hunting cabin?" Lafayette asked. I was surprised he'd waited even a moment before pumping me for the full Callista report.

"Jan Fowler?" I shrugged.

He stopped up short.

"What?" I asked.

"Jan Fowler? Mike Spencer, too?" And when I still looked at him blankly, he hooted with delight. "Then you don't know?"

"Know what?"

Lafayette could barely speak through the big grin on his face. "And here I thought I was the only one left out of the party loop. But if you don't know, what with your good buddy Sam…and that sexy hunk of a man of yours…"

He must have noticed the scowl hardening my face, which he misread.

"Naw, naw. Don't worry," he said. "Don't take it like that. The way I figure, if you don't even know, there's hope for all of us."

I hated to break it to him that I'd never had the party connections. Well, I suppose I did way back when, when musical chairs and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey were still popular games. But that was nothing I wanted to consider now, and seeing that I had no orders ready for pick-up, I turned away from him.

"Aw, Sookie!" he called after me. "It's just a party." He laughed. "Come back and I'll tell you all about it. Or at least what I've heard so far."

I didn't give a flying fig about what kind of party Jan Fowler had going on with Callista and Mike Spencer at her hunting cabin. They could all go skinny dipping with the gators, as far as I was concerned. Play stupid drinking games. Whatever it was that people did at parties like that.

But Sam…he hadn't said anything about the parties. Not one word or hint, even though he'd shared plenty of other Callista news with me. Except that come to think of it, I couldn't remember when Sam last spoke about Callista. I'd had so much else on my plate, I hadn't even noticed he'd stopped talking about her.

Maybe Lafayette was right…maybe there was hope for the rest of us.

The key was Mickey. Mickey and whether he'd lost his bar privileges. Where was Mickey?

I had to see for myself right away, and went straight for Sam's office. Arlene was back there on the phone, talking to Lisa in her admonishing mom tone. She rolled her eyes at me—being a mom is such a chore—and paid no attention as I did a quick scan of the room, checking behind Sam's desk too, where Mickey had chewed on a cord one time. Empty.

This was good news, but Callista might have left him at home for the night.

So then I headed past the restrooms, through the rear exit, and around to the back of the building, where Sam kept the dumpsters. I could hear him before I saw him, rooting and digging at the edge of the dumpster, licking its metal side.

Ha! Banished to the garbage bins!

"Right where you belong," I said aloud. And then as I watched him strain against his tether—he'd caught it on the corner of the dumpster—I imagined the break-up scene between Sam and Callista, how he'd gotten fed up with her: That's it, Callista, we're through! I've had enough of you treating my friends like dirt! She'd denied any wrongdoing, of course, accusing Sam of neglecting her, of putting his friends first. You'll miss me, you'll see she'd said, with that hell glow in her eyes. But Sam had stayed strong: And take your damn pig with you!

Mickey squealed and snorted, interrupting my reverie.

No, I guessed there hadn't been anything that dramatic. Maybe she'd gotten bored of him. And then Sam had probably mumbled something about it being best that Mickey remain outside, on account of health code regulations, or something like that. And they'd probably had a few extra post break-up sleepovers. Callista was still here, at the bar after all.

But…a girl can dream, can't she? And most importantly, here was Mickey, struggling to reach a food wrapper that hadn't made it into the bin. I reached for it, opened the lid, and tossed it away. "Just doing my civic duty," I said.

I re-entered Merlotte's through the door that led straight into the kitchen, a bounce in my step.

"There you are!" Lafayette sang out. "I see you've come around to it."

"All's right in the world," I sang back off-key, which made Lafayette cock his head like a dog who'd heard an odd noise.

"Time to check the rounds," I said, leaving Lafayette to the singing.

Yep, there was Callista holding court. I shuddered at her hair. How could anyone let her hair get like that? I'd seriously go insane.

And, I was surprised to see that Pam was here too, perched at the bar. As far as I could remember, it was the first time she'd made an appearance at Merlotte's. "I decided to investigate our competition and see what all the fuss is about," she said.

"Oh, plenty of fussing," I said. "Terry get your drink order?"

She shook her head. "Scotch on the rocks," she said, but after glancing behind the bar, she changed her mind. "Never mind. Make it...wine. A glass of...white wine. Whatever."

As I poured her a glass and set it on a cocktail napkin for her, she said, "Eric said you've been having a bad turn with Niall."

"Well, that didn't take long, cutting to the chase."

She took a sip of her wine, held her expression steady, and said, "Why bother beating around the bush, as they say. I understand things have gotten bad quickly."

"He's starting to wander now and he's forgetting more and more. Most days, he can't hardly hold a conversation, either. Just today when I went to visit him…"

"That's bad news, indeed," she said, cutting me off and saving me from oversharing with her. My excitement over Mickey had unleashed something in me. Pam, meanwhile, had looked off to her side, her attention drawn momentarily to another part of the bar. But returning fully to me, she said with great enthusiasm, as though she'd hit on a major insight, "Don't let it get you down."

I had to laugh at how oddly her words sat with her tone. "Seriously? That's the best advice you've got?"

She shrugged. "What can I say? I let Dear Abby write the long version. But she'd say basically the same thing."

"Then I guess I'll have to look her up."

She smirked. "See. I told Eric you were all right."

"So now that we've got that squared away, how are you?"

"How am I?" She pondered that question, a bemused expression on her face, as though she'd never been asked such a thing. She might have even answered me, if Mrs. Quinn's shrill voice hadn't interrupted us.

"They can't do that!" she said.

"Why not?" Callista said. "What's stopping them? Who's out there protesting? Are you?" She looked directly at Jane, who looked down. "Nobody's causing a big enough fuss to draw the press. Who else knows about the sinkhole but our tiny little world?"

A whole chorus of responses broke out in the bar. "The feds are taking too long to respond. It's like Katrina all over again. Poor Louisiana can take a ticket and get to the back of the line."

"People are losing their homes."

"Who knows how big it's gonna get."

"Who's keeping track of it?" Callista piped in. "You see any reports? Any independent reports?" She looked at me. "Eric could take his helicopter and do regular flyovers, measuring its size."

"He could post on YouTube," Mrs. Quinn said.

It seemed like the last thing Eric wanted to do—fly over the sinkhole to calculate its size and post his findings on YouTube. Convincing him to scout for Terry's gator with me had been difficult enough.

"I'll let him know you asked," I said.

Mrs. Quinn gripped my arm. "He has to. You have to make him do it. Who else has a helicopter around here?"

I pulled my arm away, bit my tongue. There was a huge difference between offering up your services because you wanted to, or because it was the right thing to do, and it being demanded of you. But that's what you got with Mrs. Quinn. Obligations. A neediness you couldn't shake. A lack of acknowledgement and mutual respect.

My fake smile inched up on my face. "As I said, I'll make sure to tell him you asked."

"Could be a matter of life or death," Callista said. "I hear there are poisonous gases building up underneath. Methane."

Someone knocked Jeff LaBeff on the shoulder. "You hear that? Poisonous gases." Loud laughter followed.

"Light that motherfucker…kablooey. There goes the whole state."

"You think that could really happen?" Mrs. Quinn asked, genuine fear in her voice.

"I don't know," Callista said, "but who thinks it's a good chance to take?"

"Me." Jeff raised his hand. "I'd like to post it on YouTube."

I turned my back and pulled my cell phone from my apron, casting a glance behind the bar, where Terry was filling a drink order. I'd been about to suggest Terry go take a smoke break when Holly had put in a big list of mixed drinks.

In one punch I had John Quinn on the line. "Hey Babe," he said.

"You'd better come get your mother again. ASAP."

"Oh…I can't. I'm right in the middle of something. Can you help me out?"

"No," I said. "I'm in the middle of something too. And I'm worried she's gonna have a breakdown."

He sucked in air. "All right, all right. Hold her steady, would you? I'm on my way."

I made no promises as I hung up.

Pam raised an eyebrow. "Eric know you still have your ex on speed dial?"

"Which one?" I asked. I could have a whole folder of them.

She was twirling her stemmed glass between her thin fingers, looking like she was contemplating a long response, when I diverted my attention to Terry.

"You about ready for that break?" I asked, as I grabbed a few beers for a table. He nodded, but continued to putter around the bar, moving, but not really doing anything focused. He'd pick up a glass, set it down, then pick up a rag, and so on.

After dropping off the beers, I made the rounds, circulating among the rowdiest of the bunch. It was too bad Charlsie Tooten wasn't here—not to mention Sam. But Charlsie had a knack for disarming people with her down-home charm. And if Callista would shut up, there might be a chance of getting out of here tonight without a core meltdown.

"Ain't just here, but everywhere…Pennsylvania.

"Revelations! It's the end of the world."

"Oh!" Mrs. Quinn sank back into her bar stool, as though she'd only barely avoided passing out. Callista had started patting her arm, while Jane was looking on with great interest.

"Don't you even think about it, Jane Bodehouse," I snapped at her. "Hold it together or I'll call Marvin." Again.

Then I circulated some more, picking up trash and wiping off tables and generally making my presence known. I'd say this evening was going to hell in a handbasket. There was more talk about sinkholes. Pictures getting shared on phones. "Look at this one, the size of three football fields," someone was saying. "Pennsylvania's got 'em bad. All that coal mining."

That went on for some time—phones lit-up and held for all to see—until I heard the crude laughing. "Check out this sinkhole."

Followed, not too long after, by a hand on my butt.

What happened next happened on auto-pilot. I whirled with my tray and shoved it—beer pitcher, thick frosted mugs, and all—at the broad-faced, beefy man who'd grabbed me. I yelled, too—loudly—which brought all attention in the bar to us.

"What the…" He jumped up, dripping with beer, and knocked his bar stool to the ground.

His buddies at his table looked on, laughing at the show at their table as they sipped their beers. Shouts and whistles stirred up around the room. "Watch out for that sinkhole!" someone called.

Beefy Man looked down and shook beer from his shirt, peeling it away from his round gut. "Bitch!"

"Time for you to leave," I said as I methodically pulled out my notebook and began adding up their tab. …Five, ten, plus nine equals nineteen… He turned to his buddies and twisted his mouth to mock me. …Carry the one… One of them had looked up, behind me.

It was Rene Lenier coming up behind us, grabbing beefy man's hand and twisting it. "This is a family establishment," he said, "And you owe Sookie an apology."

At that, the rest of beefy man's table began shifting in their seats, some standing. There was movement in the rest of the bar, too, a brewing restlessness. "Fight!" a few people shouted.

"Never mind." I slapped the bill on their table. This needed to end, not get ramped up more. And what's more, I didn't want to have to stand there and listen to a meaningless apology from that asshole.

"Rene, let him go. I just want him to pay up and get out, and then I won't have to call the police."

Beefy Man seemed to consider. For a moment, the whole scene could have gone any number of ways.

"Gladly. Fucking freak show," he finally said as he pulled his wallet. "Here ya go. Keep the change," he snorted.

I watched as they all filed out. "Rene, you should have let me handle that," I said.

"Sorry, Sookie. I couldn't help it. You know I can't stand that sort of thing with my sister and all."

I bristled. Rene had told me all about his sister who'd been struggling with schizophrenia. She was taking powerful medications that tamed her bad thoughts, but caused her mouth to grimace and move in a way she couldn't help. The damage was permanent. I didn't especially appreciate being lumped in with her, just as I guessed she wouldn't want to be lumped in with me.

"I know, but next time, I'll call for you if I need help."

Rene looked unconvinced, either because he doubted I could handle trouble or because he didn't think he could control himself. But I considered the matter between us settled for the time being. I looked around the bar to see what other fires needed to be put out.

Pam was holding a baseball bat. Terry was nowhere in sight. "I took this off Terry's hands and sent him out for a cigarette," she said. "He looked a little…indiscriminate."

"Thank you," I said simply. For his sake, I was glad he hadn't had to use the bat.

Right beneath Pam's feet, Mrs. Quinn had fallen to the floor, whimpering. Pam daintily sidestepped her to avoid getting her toes crushed.

"Poor thing is scared out of her mind," Callista said. "This bar…the energy in here…"

I was in no mood to deal with either of them. "It's time to get up," I said to Mrs. Quinn in my most no-nonsense tone, offering her my hand. I didn't doubt she was in distress, but I took note that she seemed to be moving all right once I insisted on it. I found her a chair away from the bar, draped her purse over it, and told her to have a seat and stay there.

"You can't just leave her there," Callista protested. "She needs help."

As if on cue, Mrs. Quinn let out a moan.

"She'll be a lot better once you leave," I said. And in case that wasn't clear enough, I added, "So get out now."

"I think I'll call Sam," she said.

"Go ahead," I said. "You can call from your cell phone outside. With Mickey." And that would have made me smile again, if I wasn't so deadly serious about booting Callista. Rene had stolen my thunder earlier, but I wasn't going to lose it now.

"I have a sinking feeling about this," someone called from the bar.

Callista smiled as she backed out, as though she didn't want to miss any of the commotion she'd caused. I really hated her hair.

Within moments of her exit, the whole atmosphere of the bar changed. I could breathe more easily. I straightened my apron. Tugged on my tee. I would have grabbed a mop, but Arlene had actually taken the initiative. Holly, meanwhile, had begun tidying some tables, as a means of shooing people on their way.

Pam didn't even look ruffled. "You're all right," she declared. She gave the bat she was still holding a little glance, as though contemplating its use, before tucking it behind the bar. Then she pressed a slip of paper in my hand. "This is for you. I'll see you later."

She was nearly out the door by the time I looked down at the scrawled note. Dr. Amy Ludwig, (985) 555-4387.