Whatever was wrong with Alan, it was definitely rattling him. He'd left the kitchen in a hurry after which you heard him running the water in the bathroom down the hall. After a few more minutes, though, you heard the door slam and caught a glipse of him heading down the road at a jog. On the table were his wallet and keys: forgotten.
A twinge of concern washes over you and, for a moment, you consider going after him. You stop, though, realizing that it's probably nerves over the impending date you and he have scheduled. It occurs to you that Alan may not have ever dated another guy, before. It could be that you are his first.
The thought makes you smile but also gives you a twinge of concern. Young guys could be awfully nervy their first time.
Maybe you should phone; just to reassure him. He always had his mobile on him: all you need is the number.
You go through his wallet but find no number, just his driver's license.
"Alan Whittaker," you huff under your breath, "don't go all Single White Female on me, now."
You don't find his phone number but, after looking around, you find his phone by the couch in the living room. Deciding that whatever happens, happens, you go about your day and wait for him to come home.
Classes are fairly ordinary, a bit more homework from your calculus professor than you would have liked, but still tolerable. You didn't see Alan anywhere on campus all day. Your stoic decision to not get worried has started to seem increasily irrational by the time you arrive back at your countryside home. You look to the mountains in the distance and sigh.
Should you call the police?
The sun continues to set in the west as you wrestle with your conscience.
"Gren?"
Alan's voice takes you by surprise and you jump. Spinning around, you see him just beyond the door in the shadows of the first floor landing. Cast in darkness, you can only just make out his general, long-eared outline. Even if you couldn't tell by the tremor in his voice, his use of your last name, "Gren", was a sure sign he was nervous. You'd only gotten him to start calling you "Blake" about two weeks ago.
"Alan, what's wrong?"
The nervous rabbit falters, not answering you right away. "I ... I think something's wrong with me," he says. "I mean ... really wrong."
Your heart skips a bit as you step forward. "Geez, Alan; what? What is it?"
Slowly, he steps into the light of the living room lamp.
You blink and can't help but stare.
Alan stands up to his full height, a full foot and a half taller than you. His muscles have grown and he looks like his clothing were just painted on, it's so tight. His big feet slap against the carpet as he ambles forward. Easily seven-foot-nine, the towering rabbit doesn't get terribly close but, rather, just hangs his head and shyly says, "I...I'm growing."
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