Land of the Living

Miles, he had beady eyes and a pointy nose, washed his almost human like hands gingerly, blowing each molecule of dust off them. His black fur had thickened, which indicated the upcoming winter would be a cold one. His tail swished back and forth as if it had a life of its own.

            “Good stuff in and bad stuff out,” Miles said loudly.

            Harold, wringing his thin boney hands, sighed audibly.

            “Miles,” Harold said, “We need to ascertain if Chad really killed Lilith. And if he did, we need to find her body.”

            “We could work on your latest song,” Miles said, trying to sound chipper.

            “Miles,” Harold said, “I appreciate the gesture. But I’m bone tired and feeling, well, I feel as if I am running out of time. We need to find Lilith, dead or alive, and we need to put my affairs in order.”

            Miles stood up on his hind feet, trying to look as large as a not very big packrat could. As much as Miles wanted Harold to recover and move on to his next dimension in life, Miles hated goodbyes, and especially did not want to have to say farewell to Harold the Ghost.

“I understand,” Miles said, one salty tear falling out of his left eye, like a drop of rain. “But we’ll need Miss Kitty’s assistance, and after the police came and arrested Mr. Death for an assortment of outstanding warrants and hauled him off to KMC for a psychiatric evaluation, Miss Kitty rode Miss Patches home. I’m betting she’s taking a well deserved nap.”

“Yes, of course,” Harold said, rubbing his left knee. Harold had tore his ACL trying to ski. He couldn’t keep up with Lilith on her snowboard. "She was so full of life, Miles," Harold said. "A bit wild, but she had a big heart. She helped me get clean and sober, and she insisted that we at least try to get Chad on the sobriety path.”

Miles nodded his head. Packrats liked to drink now and again, but packrat’s did not stuff white powder up their nostrils, much less smoke or inject it. Indeed, Miles had a difficult time imagining why anyone would do that to themselves.

“I was young,” Harold said, as if he were reading Miles' mind, “and didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere. But when I snorted Crank, why, I became the person I thought I should be. I could perform on stage, and I was the center of the universe. Course, it wasn’t long before the drugs and alcohol had me in their vice-like grip. I was lucky, Miles. Lilith saved me. Chad, he had nobody, and I think he crossed the line. He’s insane, and I doubt he can cross the line back into the land of the living.”