Chapter Seven

I quietly slipped back out through the gate, my mood low. My feet reached the street, my eyes glanced across, no cars were coming. My brain was somewhere else, far away. Which is why I almost stepped on the frog. It was a small, poor, pathetic creature, no bigger than the palm of my hand. I scanned the road, making sure that no cars were coming. It was clear. A deep gash ran along one of the little frog's leg. I moved a finger toward it, and it scrambled to get away, but failed, favoring it's injured leg. I tutted and cooed. It obviously couldn't stay here, it looked as if it was about to pass out, or drop dead. I wondered if it had lost a lot of blood.

Let me pause here and say that I have a phobia of slimy things. I can't eat oysters, tomatoes, mussels, anything that slithers down one's throat. I rarely swam in the ocean or in ponds, the seaweed and weeds just freaked me out. Picking up a moist, slimey, dying frog was not my cup of tea.

Which was why I was extremely surprised when I found the frog resting in my palm, and discovered that this was of my own doing. Well, I thought, after having gotten over the shock of what I'd done, now what? I glanced around, as if an answer would just pop out of the bushes.

When one did, I wasn't expecting it.