The Hunted

Still, the basics were always the same. Food, shelter and clothing came first. Dylan pushed his selections across the counter, and watched as the clerk totaled the cost of each into a sum. He had enough to cover it, but the fold of bills in his pocket was not as thick as it had been only a few days before. Still, he needed the new underwear and socks, as well as the two long-sleeved pullover shirts, and a pair of cotton pants the same faded green as the knapsack he had picked out to hold it all.

Army surplus, the clerk had said when he picked it up, and that triggered another set of memories in Dylan’s head. Men, and things exploding into the water. Men swimming, being pulled to land. Some of them going away, after, and some of them staying. His great-grandfather had been one of those men pulled to safety by his great-grandmother, according to family stories, Dylan remembered now. A human sailor: one of the ones who stayed. That was the source of the memories, then.

He welcomed the memories, and the information they brought; his people were seal-kin, after all, not seals. This confusing land was as much his legacy as the ocean and wind, for all that he had never explored it much before now.

He paid the final charge and shoved everything into the knapsack, adjusting the straps to fit comfortably over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said to the clerk, who paused in shutting the register’s drawer to smile in return. “No problem. Have a good day, mister.”

Leaving the store, Dylan paused in front of another storefront window, drawn by something in the display. Bright sticks of color, each the size of one of his fingers, wrapped in paper and just begging to be picked up and drawn across a surface. Like the chalks he used at home, but softer, creamier. It was only a hobby, his drawing, but he missed it.

He mentally counted how much cash he had left from the anklet, after buying clothing and paying for the room, then looked at the chalks again. Not enough. Not if he didn’t find work soon. Dylan didn’t want to rely on Dr. Alden’s charity, but he didn’t know, anymore, how long finding Her would take, and … And he could almost feel the chalks under his fingers, could almost see the swaths of color they would leave behind.

It was stupid. He was here to find his mate, and then go home. That was what drove him. The sense of urgency moved within him, reminding him that he didn’t have forever. He had enough paints and brushes at home, and he would be back with them soon enough, once his mission was done.

And yet, suddenly he found himself inside the store, buying the sticks, and a pad of thick white paper, and a fat brush with soft bristles, to smooth the colors together in ways he could already envision in his mind. The thought made him smile.