Optimism in Dark Places

A weary foursome, we stalked out of the apartment building. Bloodshot eyes watched our departure, perhaps hoping to slip in the outer door, sleep in a hallway. The August night welcomed our silence, and we its.

Only after our course took us through the city park, stately elms swaying in the night breeze, did Sgt Jones speak, “Right mess that was, last lead and nothing to show.”

“Ever the optimist, eh?” Dr. Kruger chided, his tone unfailingly paternal despite his own wounds from the evening.

“Right, right, must’ve left my rosier glasses at home, in my other vest…the one not covered in dead priest bits. So what now?”

I stifled a giggle, one of those nervous, fatigue-induced ones that always fall on unwelcoming ears. Though no eyes dared to be caught upon her, our thoughts were on Professor Boro. She had always been the guide in darker climes, the voice of unreasonable reason.

She remained silent.

The night did not. Shrieks of devilish glee echoed through the trees, assailing calm from all sides.

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