Wednesday's Word: SCRAM, an excerpt from Small Town Escape

  Welcome to #WednesdayWords where I share a snippet of a story using yesterday's word from the New York game, WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was SCRAM. I haven't used the word scram, so I went with SCRAMBLE.

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On Saturday, the crisp morning air carried a hint of pine mingled with the unmistakable stench of a dairy farm. We rounded a hill, and a herd of camels came into view, contentedly grazing under the steady eye of a local farmer.

Mabel’s uncertainty was palpable as we approached Mr. Gibbs, who greeted us with a warm smile. "You folks here for a ride?" he asked, nodding toward the creatures.

Mabel shot me a glance that betrayed her nervousness. I grinned and took her hand. "Don't worry, they're gentle."

I introduced Mr. Gibbs to Mabel, and he introduced us to the camels, their names a mix of exotic and comical. We were paired with Sahara and Sultan.

Mabel hesitated beside Sultan, but I patted his side. "He's a big softie. You'll be fine."

Sahara, after some urging from the farmer, dropped to his knees.

With a boost from Mr. Gibbs, I mounted Sahara and settled into the leather saddle.

Mabel, however, eyed Sultan, uncertainty etched on her face. I gestured for her to join me.

"Climb up here with me," I suggested, offering her a hand.

She wavered, but after a long moment, she took my hand, her grip tight as she scrambled onto Sahara’s back in front of me. Once she was settled, I wrapped an arm around her, offering a comforting smile, even though she couldn’t see my face.

The farmer handed me the reins, gave us both a wink, and thumped the creature on the flank.

The camel ambled off in a steady gait, rocking us back and forth.

I shifted so Mabel fit snugly against me. "See? Not so bad, right? I thought you might be nervous, so I came prepared with jokes.”

“Jokes?” Mabel squeaked.

“Yes.” I tightened my arms around her waist and pulled her a fraction closer. “How do you ask camels if they want some tea?”

“Camels don’t drink tea.”

“They absolutely do, and when you offer them tea, you should always ask, ‘One hump or two?’” I paused. “It’s funnier in English, because lump and hump rhyme.”

Mabel's nervous laughter mixed with the rhythmic sounds of the camels' movements as we set off across the pasture. Cascadia’s scenery unfolded around us—the green hills, the distant town, and the camels grazing in the pasture.

“I have more.”

Mabel groaned, but even though I couldn’t see her face, I felt her smile and relax a fraction against me.

“Why do camels blend in so well with their surroundings?” I asked. I didn’t wait for her to answer. “They use camel-flage.”

She groaned again, but it was a happy groan.

“Just one more,” I said. “What do you call a camel that cries? A humpback wail.”

“What are those?” Mabel asked, pointing at a herd of ostriches.

“What do you think they are?”

“Ostriches, but what are they doing here?”

“Laying mammoth eggs, of course.” I kicked myself for not coming prepared with ostrich jokes—if there even were such things.

As the camels plodded along, Mabel gradually relaxed.. We chatted and laughed, and Sahara’s swaying motion bumped Mabel against my chest.

“Whatever made Mr. Gibbs want to raise camels and ostriches?” Mabel asked.

“He was stationed in the Middle East and, I guess, just fell in love with them.”

“Goodness, did he have them transported from the Middle East?”

“No. There are a number of exotic animal auctions in the U.S.”

“How do you know so much?”

“I’m from a family of farmers, remember?”

“That’s right. I keep forgetting.”

I tightened my arms around her and rested my chin on the top of her head. I loved that she didn’t seem to see me as just one of the Haywood boys.

“You really are too good to be true,” Mabel said.

“If you think that, I’ve done a good job of fooling you.”

“What do you mean? You are a perfect example of Dudley Do-Right.”

“No, Mabel, I hate to disillusion you, but I’m not.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t become a cop to make the world a better, safer, happier place?”

“In part. But the horrible truth is, I became a cop to become a better, safer, happier person.” I swallowed hard. “I had—have—an anger problem.”

“I find that really hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s true. In fact, when I was younger and stupider, I got in a fight with my best friend… We’re not friends anymore.”

“All kids fight.”

“We nearly killed each other.”

“You must have been provoked.”

I grimaced, grateful she couldn’t see my face. “Maybe, but it didn’t warrant my behavior. Have you ever heard of the berserkers?”

Mabel shook her head.

“When Norse warriors turned wild, fighting in this crazy, frenzied mode, they were called berserkers. They were fearless, super strong, and supposedly invincible on the battlefield. Stories from sagas and old texts talk about battling warriors going into a trance, pulling off insane combat moves unconcerned for their own safety. But here's the thing,” I pressed a hand against my chest as if taking an oath, “I don’t like being a berserker.”

“It’s a choice, though, right?”

I shrugged. “Anger is addicting, and, just like any addiction, you—and by you, I mean me—have to learn how to control it or it will control you. A cop probably kept Raff and me from killing each other. I haven’t been in a fight since.”

“And what about Raff? Where is he?”

“Ohio.”

“Ohio?” Mabel echoed. “That’s random.”

“And far away. He’s Harmon’s brother, by the way, and also the reason I’m fluent in Spanish. Although, we haven’t spoken in years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. It hurts to lose someone you love, but it especially hurts when you know you’re the reason they’re lost.”

Mabel glanced around. “Do you think we’re lost now?”

“No. I’ve lived here my entire life. I could never be lost here.” Although that might have been true physically, the more time I spent with Mabel, the more and more lost I felt. I was falling for her. Hard.