Where We Used to Roam by Jenn Bishop (sites to read books for free .TXT) 📕

hundred years ago there was probably some woman in a hoop skirt grabbing the same gnarled railing I am now. “This place is amazing,” I say to Sadie.

Sadie shrugs, but then, I’m not sure how much of the place she’s really seen, given how she’s been glued to her phone the whole day.

We enter our room, and Sadie shuts the door behind us with a triumphant thump. She drops her suitcase by the bed closest to the door while I head for the one under the window and set my duffel on the floor.

My phone buzzes with a text from my mom. About time! I’ve only been checking my phone all afternoon for updates. Finally home. Cape traffic was so bad we stopped for dinner after the bridge.

How’s Austin? I type.

It feels like the dot-dot-dot is there forever, but finally the message from Mom comes through.

He seems good, she writes. Looking forward to FaceTime tomorrow. Pics? XO.

I send her a few shots I got of Old Faithful. Heading to dinner soon. See you tomorrow! Give Austin a hug from me.

Even though the long car ride here was exhausting, I’ve got this strange burst of energy right now. Not Sadie, though. She’s stretched out on the bed with her eyes closed, taking a nap. We’ve got a half hour till our dinner reservation, so I grab my sketchbook and head out to the balcony that wraps around the whole upstairs like an indoor porch.

Wooden rocking chairs face the lobby below. I spot an empty one and settle in, waiting for Chris and Delia to pop out. The texture of the wood here is incredible: knotted and whorled. It would be amazing to get my hands on something this special for a box someday.

I sketch the lines and patterns for a while, but then my hand starts to ache and I walk over to the large window that faces Old Faithful. The crowd in the lookout area now is at least as big as it was not even an hour ago when we were there. It’s smoking still, the mist wafting our way.

It’s different, watching it without Brian this time. I no longer know exactly when it’s going to go. There’s even more anticipation. Will it gush now?

No.

How about now?

My fingers rub the edges of the sketchbook, flipping one way and then the other.

Until it blows.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I blink my eyes open in the dark room, wondering why I’m awake. It takes a few seconds to remember where I am. Across the way I can just make out the little Sadie-sized hump beneath the quilt.

Did my phone wake me? Could it have been Austin? Did he text me? I reach for where I left it on the nightstand, but there are no new messages—from Austin or anyone—only the time: 2:03 a.m.

Back home it’s two hours later. Not quite morning, even for an early riser like Mom. I like to think of all of them tucked into their beds, like in that book Austin used to read me around Christmas when I was little. All those little mice, tucked into their little mouse beds, fast asleep.

I set my phone back on the bedside table and try to be like one of those mice. I close my eyes. I flip onto my side.

I flip onto my other side, patting down the pillow.

I lie on my back.

I lie on my stomach.

I check my phone again—it’s been more than half an hour. And the thing is, I don’t feel tired at all. Not really.

I slip out of bed, careful not to make a sound that would wake Sadie. I try to unzip my backpack to get my sketchbook, but the zipping feels too loud, so I just take the whole thing into the hallway, easing the door shut behind me.

No one’s in the rocking chairs now. No night owls, I guess, except for me. Well, me and the guy working the front desk. But to be honest he looks pretty zoned out as he stares into the computer screen, every now and then clicking the mouse.

I’m about to settle into a rocking chair and sketch for a bit when it hits me: how eerie Old Faithful must look under the light of the moon. With bare feet, I pad over to the window. For now all that’s out there is stillness. No shock of white. If there’s smoky mist wafting out of the geyser, I can’t tell in the dark.

But then something breaks the stillness. Out of the corner of my eye I catch movement beneath the bright lights of the parking lot. Stumbling forward out of the shadows on spindly legs—a baby buffalo.

The guy at the front desk doesn’t even look up as the automatic doors part with barely a sound, and then I’m outside. The night air is cool, the concrete scratchy on the soles of my feet.

It’s calm outside. No bustling crowds of tourists now. Nothing to see but the starry night sky. There must be a million stars, twinkling up above me. More than I ever saw back home with the light of the city so close.

It’s all alone, just standing there, the bright lights of the parking lot like a spotlight. Without its mom or its dad or its herd.

Kind of like me.

My eyes are still adjusting to the dark as I come to a stop several yards away from it. The buffalo turns its head toward me, staring back with big cow eyes, and it feels like the whole summer has been leading to this moment since the drive out to Wyoming.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m not going to hurt you.”

There’s no reason for me to be afraid. I’m not about to be gored to death. He—or she—is too small to do any damage. Still, I’m cautious. The mom could be lurking out there somewhere in the dark, waiting to charge me.

Instinctively, I almost reach out, but stop myself when