You inwardly snarl as you dig your hand into your forehead. You forgot the goddamned dinner set at the store. You'd already paid for the one box and were rushing everything else down the conveyer belt, but you were already out the door of your local Fred's in order to beat the rain before you could remember why your shopping cart felt peculiarly empty - which, as it turns out, was an unnecessary decision, seeing as your windshield was only peppered with water here and there. And now you were out sixty dollars worth of crockery.
You let out a pained groan of frustration.
Pulling into the attached carport of your home, you slam the driver side door shut and you tighten your lips, your face screwing up a little as you stare out onto the driveway, watching as the rain starts to come down just as you'd anticipated.
"I guess I'm lucky it waited for me," you grumble sarcastically.
You open the door to your home, carrying four plastic bags in one hand. You rush to the kitchen counter and set them down before either you or the plastic breaks under the weight of your groceries, and you take a brief moment to catch your breath before returning out to the car. Peering your head in, you fail to spy any more groceries and figure you'll go back to get the box either after everything's put away, or the weather starts to clear up a little. You're not about to add a car accident to the list of shit today; you imagine that if not for those reasons, you should wait until you at least calm down a little.
Wishing that were the only thing you had to keep you home, you begin unbagging the colder items and placing them in the appropriate spots in your refrigerator and freezer, and you move on to a few cans and other things while organizing those into your pantry cabinet. With a huff, you shut it and stream past the counter edge, scooping up the plastic bags as you make a beeline to the trash can.
That's when you see it. A strange blur while you're moving down to put the bags in the garbage.
You knit your brows as you glance up, still in the position of throwing them away, and stare out the window next to the breakfast table. You see something unfamiliar laid out on the concrete steps of your shed, under the cover of its miniature porch.
You strain your eyes through the glass as you try to identify the black mass a mere four yards away from your window, but the fact of sheets of rain falling between the two buildings combined with streams of water trailing down the glass conspired to almost block your view entirely.
Standing up straight, you purse your lips curiously and decide to at least go into the garage and shut the back door of your car before you investigate.
You fish out the key to your tiny laundry room directly connected to the garage. You unlock the door on your side, before walking a few steps and turning the knob of the door to the back yard.
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