then all of a sudden figured out how to move? Suppose it went off on a little stroll? It didnât seem likely but Shelton couldnât be sure; he didnât know that much about babies.
Then he had a terrible thought. He had the worst possible kind of thought and hurried to the window and looked down. If the baby had flung itself out of the bassinet, then the odds were fifty-fifty that it had gone out the window side and plunged straight to the ground. And if it had plunged straight to the ground it would have long been buried by the falling snow. He looked out at the blizzard, felt the cold bite his knuckles on the windowsill.
âJesus, no,â he said.
He ran outside in his stocking feet, took a shovel from the porch, and started working through the drift beneath the window. He dug and with each plunge came closer to fathoming the horror he would suffer if he plucked the baby out of that drift with his shovel blade.
Shelton burrowed clear to the ground but there was no baby frozen in the snow. He dropped to his knees and looked up at the open window. He was flooded with relief and might have wept with joy, except the baby was still gone and he had no idea where. He left the shovel in the snow and went inside.
For a moment he considered calling Uncle Rick. Rick was on a Florida vacation and had asked not be bothered, but this might be a situation heâd want to weigh in on. Missing babies could be a problem for all involved, but on the other hand Rick had left Shelton in charge. His only instructions had been not to fuck anything up, and now that he had it didnât seem in his best interest to report it directly.
Shelton needed something to puff on, but there was no meth left in the house because heâd cooked the last and smoked it with Kayla. Kayla didnât weigh but ninety pounds, but the girl could smoke shit.
It always seemed Shelton ran out of meth at the worst possible time. He needed desperately to focus and began to panic at the prospect of attempting to do so while sober, but then remembered the tank of nitrous oxide heâd stashed in the closet, in case of emergency.
Well, if this wasnât an emergency then Shelton didnât know what was. And maybe a little nip of nitrous would be the perfect change of pace. There was more to life than methamphetamines and in truth it would probably do him some good to lay off the pipe for a bit, lest he begin to exhibit signs of addictive behavior.
He brought out the tank and stood it on the living room floor. He had a pack of party balloons to go with it and fished out a red one first. He turned the nozzle on the tank and savored the satisfying hiss as the gas discharged.
The beauty of nitrous was that it wouldnât show up on a standard piss test. At least Shelton didnât think it would. Obviously the methamphetamines would be there in full parade, along with the pot and the alcohol and the cocaine, but what good did it do anybody to dwell on such things? His PO could call him up at any moment and have him drive over to the courthouse to piss. Thatâs just the way the legal system was, unorganized and flat impossible to predict. It wasnât something you could let get in the way of living your life.
He sucked down the first balloon and held the gas in for a bitbefore he breathed out. Then he filled another balloon. He swallowed the second and leaned back on the couch and felt his head go wha-wha-wha .
It was good to unwind every now and again, Shelton thought. A good snort of nitrous was like having somebody take a scrub brush to your brain, and heâd be damned if the world didnât sparkle for a moment there on the couch.
He did another balloon and then went into the kitchen and poured himself some vodka, but only to accent the gas. He wasnât going to get drunk, not at a time like this. All Shelton needed was a little warmer.
He picked up General Winthrop, the Maine coon cat, and promised himself that when
Then he had a terrible thought. He had the worst possible kind of thought and hurried to the window and looked down. If the baby had flung itself out of the bassinet, then the odds were fifty-fifty that it had gone out the window side and plunged straight to the ground. And if it had plunged straight to the ground it would have long been buried by the falling snow. He looked out at the blizzard, felt the cold bite his knuckles on the windowsill.
âJesus, no,â he said.
He ran outside in his stocking feet, took a shovel from the porch, and started working through the drift beneath the window. He dug and with each plunge came closer to fathoming the horror he would suffer if he plucked the baby out of that drift with his shovel blade.
Shelton burrowed clear to the ground but there was no baby frozen in the snow. He dropped to his knees and looked up at the open window. He was flooded with relief and might have wept with joy, except the baby was still gone and he had no idea where. He left the shovel in the snow and went inside.
For a moment he considered calling Uncle Rick. Rick was on a Florida vacation and had asked not be bothered, but this might be a situation heâd want to weigh in on. Missing babies could be a problem for all involved, but on the other hand Rick had left Shelton in charge. His only instructions had been not to fuck anything up, and now that he had it didnât seem in his best interest to report it directly.
Shelton needed something to puff on, but there was no meth left in the house because heâd cooked the last and smoked it with Kayla. Kayla didnât weigh but ninety pounds, but the girl could smoke shit.
It always seemed Shelton ran out of meth at the worst possible time. He needed desperately to focus and began to panic at the prospect of attempting to do so while sober, but then remembered the tank of nitrous oxide heâd stashed in the closet, in case of emergency.
Well, if this wasnât an emergency then Shelton didnât know what was. And maybe a little nip of nitrous would be the perfect change of pace. There was more to life than methamphetamines and in truth it would probably do him some good to lay off the pipe for a bit, lest he begin to exhibit signs of addictive behavior.
He brought out the tank and stood it on the living room floor. He had a pack of party balloons to go with it and fished out a red one first. He turned the nozzle on the tank and savored the satisfying hiss as the gas discharged.
The beauty of nitrous was that it wouldnât show up on a standard piss test. At least Shelton didnât think it would. Obviously the methamphetamines would be there in full parade, along with the pot and the alcohol and the cocaine, but what good did it do anybody to dwell on such things? His PO could call him up at any moment and have him drive over to the courthouse to piss. Thatâs just the way the legal system was, unorganized and flat impossible to predict. It wasnât something you could let get in the way of living your life.
He sucked down the first balloon and held the gas in for a bitbefore he breathed out. Then he filled another balloon. He swallowed the second and leaned back on the couch and felt his head go wha-wha-wha .
It was good to unwind every now and again, Shelton thought. A good snort of nitrous was like having somebody take a scrub brush to your brain, and heâd be damned if the world didnât sparkle for a moment there on the couch.
He did another balloon and then went into the kitchen and poured himself some vodka, but only to accent the gas. He wasnât going to get drunk, not at a time like this. All Shelton needed was a little warmer.
He picked up General Winthrop, the Maine coon cat, and promised himself that when
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