Might make me a chickenshit, especially when I’m normally ready to fire-either a gun or my mouth-but I didn’t slide back into my chair until after the meeting reconvened.
Director Shenker liked to hear himself talk. And he didn’t seem to notice I didn’t participate. He dismissed us-not for lunch, like I’d expected, but for the rest of the day. He stopped my rapid exit with a curt “Gunderson.”
“Sir?”
“I’ll clear you to be at tribal headquarters archive department. You’ll be assigned on this task until further notice. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Turnbull, I’ll need you to stick around for a bit,” Shenker added, allowing me to make a clean getaway.
It was an indication of how crappy my morning had been that I was actually looking forward to my trip to the dreaded Hellmart-aka Walmart. As usual, the parking lot was jam-packed, and I practically had to park on the moon. But I gave myself props for remembering to remove my gun, since I was always way too temped to use it in the store.
Once inside the building, I cut through the health and beauty aisles to reach the dog food. Might as well stock up. I zipped past the gun department, briefly stopping to price bullets.
I spent so little time in the household-goods section of the store it took me a couple of rows to find it. And holy hell, the color choices for comforters fanned out before me like a rainbow. Couldn’t go wrong with navy blue. I piled a blanket, a comforter, a sheet set, and matching plaid curtains on top of all the other junk.
Seemed Hope was always running out of diapers, so I detoured to the baby section and threw two packs into the cart. I couldn’t resist a new outfit for Poopy, a darling pair of denim overalls with glittery butterflies appliquéd on the butt.
I skipped the food section and wished for the hundredth time Sophie knew how to text so she could send me the weekly grocery list since I was already here.
My cell buzzed while I waited in line. I debated ignoring it, except I wouldn’t want to miss sexting with Dawson because I was avoiding Turnbull. The text wasn’t from either man, but from Hope, asking me to pick up diapers. One step ahead of ya, sis.
Since I had no place to be, I stopped at Wendy’s for lunch. Afterward, on a whim, I pulled into Runnings, a ranch supply store. Seeing the display of hunting gear, I realized I didn’t have the mandatory neon orange article of clothing required for all hunters. It went against everything ingrained in me to wear something so blatantly obvious. I picked the least offensive item I could find: a knit hat. I tossed one in the cart for Dawson, too. Checking the prices of various calibers of bullets, I was surprised they were a buck less a box than at Walmart, so I scooped up a box of.308 for my rifle, a box of.270 for Dawson’s Remington bolt action, a box of.223 for my AR, and a box of.22 for target practice.