Thick with onions, mushrooms, garlic and a trace of red wine, the rich, meaty aroma of bison stew fills his senses. He sighs, content. The crocodile sips tea through the straw and nibbles at his soup with the ladle while Ms. Fast chatters and does his nails. By the time she finishes, his bowl is nearly empty. Hunger still sits like a beast in his belly.
“Oh, wait! I should get you a towel,” she says. She hurries to the sink, then hands him a dishcloth to wipe his snout.
As she stands, her green dress catches on the table edge and shifts on her body. Big Al notices, realizing for the first time she is wearing something.
A pale shoulder shows beneath the green fabric before she absently adjusts it back into place. Big Al glances at his own wrist. His green is not clothing but skin.
Humans dress their bodies.
He isn’t sure why, but it changes their color and shape. If he wants to blend in, he will need to dress himself too. And if Big Al is good at anything, it is blending in.
When she hands him the dishcloth, he wipes his snout, then unfolds it and drapes it over his shoulders. It’s flimsy and too small, but he figures it could pass for clothing.
Her face turns bright red. “Good heavens! I should have thought of this sooner. I am so sorry. One moment—I believe I have some clothes to share.”
Ms. Fast bustles off, then returns quickly to grab a painted claw and lead him upstairs.
On the bed waits a red-and-white button-up shirt with a pair of blue jeans.
“I’ll leave you be,” Ms. Fast says, still red-faced as she pulls the door shut. “There’ll be more soup waiting downstairs.”
The pants don’t fit; there’s no place for his tail. Big Al pokes a hole with his claw, then bites the legs shorter. Still, they hang awkwardly.
The shirt fits loose, buttons won’t close, and his yellow underbelly glares like a swamp sun in August. This isn’t blending.
What Ms. Fast wore looked more comfortable. It left room for a tail.
The closet door stands ajar. A blue dress speckled with darker spots catches his eye. Big Al strips out of the shirt and jeans, then slips into the dress without hesitation.
He catches his reflection in a mirror and turns this way and that, studying himself from three angles.
I look better than Ms. Fast in this dress, he thinks with a chuckle.
The aroma of soup drifts up the stairs, mingling with a faint tang of varnished oak, and pulls him from the bedroom. He sets the hat back on his head and galumphs down.
“Oh. I should have been more considerate,” Ms. Fast says, blushing even deeper when she sees him in the dress. She looks puzzled.
“I didn’t realize you preferred that sort of thing.”
Big Al waves his paw the way Mike Mulberry had, and Ms. Fast settles.
“Things have changed so much these days,” she says with a sigh. “It’s hard to keep up, but I try my best. Please, have a seat, Rick. There’s soup waiting.”
Big Al takes his seat and sips contentedly through the straw. He never knew water could taste like meat.
Ms. Fast studies him and something seems to click.
“Oh. I think I have something for you! Just a moment.”
More food? thinks his stomach.
She returns with a small purse, beaming.
“I knew I was holding onto this for a reason,” she says, setting it beside him. From the purse she takes a little canister. “It’s moisturizer—a gift I’ve saved for years. I think it might suit you. Sometimes the smallest comforts make the biggest difference.”
Big Al blows bubbles in his soup while she tucks the canister back into the purse and places it by his left claw.
“All fit as a fiddle,” she says warmly. “It’s worked wonders for me. Oh—are you done already?”
Big Al flips his soup bowl upside down, clean as a whistle. He wants more. His stomach demands it. Something strange passes through him; a feeling he doesn’t recognize, rising from wanting more than she was willing to give.
A new scent seems to arise from his own skin.
Hmm. I feel bad, but not sure why. Big Al feels shame for the first time.
“Slow down, Chompers, there’s only so much stew to go around,” she says. “I need to save some for dinner. I’ll get more bison tomorrow.”
The scent of soup still simmering on the stove rumbles his belly beast. This was only a small appetizer, and now she is telling him there will be no more. The belly beast tightens itself.
“I’m sorry, Rick, that’s all for now. But I can make more tomorrow.” She fans her face, catching her breath. “Why don’t we go for a walk? The outdoors will do us both good. You seem the outdoorsy type.”
Big Al knows that eating her would not be in the best interest of his stomach. If he were to eat her, there would be no more soup at all. He doesn’t know how to use the knobs on the stove or how to make more food come to him here. With this realization comes the knowledge that he must learn how to make food come to him in the human world. In Stinkwater Marsh all he had to do was lay in wait. Here, something else must happen.
Hungry, but waiting, he decides.
So they leave the house, against the will of Big Al’s stomach. The belly beast grumbles again. Big Al lifts the moisturizer from the purse and rubs it into his skin. Somehow the beast grows quieter.
Ms. Fast pays him no mind. She shows him around, and with only three houses there isn’t much to see. The houses face the landing strip, their backs to the woods. A rusted panel truck, Molly’s Long-Distance Moving painted on the side, squats in tall grass near the farthest house.
“The Johnson’s are just settling in,” Ms. Fast says. “They had a few things that couldn’t be flown in. That must be their moving truck.”
Big Al lifts his snout. From the woods comes a new scent, sharp and teasing to his rumbling stomach. His belly beast growls, eager for the hunt.
For a moment, the old, easy Stinkwater way of patient waiting tries to pull him back.
Not here. Not now, he tells himself.
“Watch yourself near those trees, Rick. The wild out here can kill.”
You mean it brings food, he thinks. For me.
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Chapter 5 audio drops September 6
Chapter 6 text drops September 13