Misgivings: Day 3

Word Count: 18,192

Summary of Events:

Greyson packed up his things that had been unscathed by the minor flood, as well as — once cleaned — the things that had gotten wet, but hadn't been ruined over the next week, as well as making a claim on his renter's insurance for the rather minor loss he'd incurred before bidding farewell to Aron and his small family and setting out for the Fransbergen farm, where Greyson's arrival was received hostilely by a short, stocky man who stood in front of Greyson's SUV and wouldn't let him move until Mr. Fransbergen ordered him to do so, allowing a big truck with a meat company's name on its side to leave that had been blocked by the minor standoff. Greyson asked Mr. Fransbergen to fill out the form he'd made which, after reading, Mr. Fransbergen meant to do, except neither of them had a pen, so he called for a man by the name of Ayers…

Excerpt of the Day:

“What do you want?” the man — Greyson presumed his name was Ayers — asked irritably.

“Get me a pen,” Mr. Fransbergen snapped back.

Ayers turned and thumped back into the house without closing the door, not returning until more minutes had elapsed than Greyson had expected, but he produced a pen for Mr. Fransbergen, who took it without a word, testing it on a corner of the page before starting to write.

Greyson glanced up at Ayers, who gave him a suspicious glare as he returned into the house, closing the front door somewhat heavily. Greyson looked back at Mr. Fransbergen, who was still filling out the form.

Eventually Mr. Fransbergen finished and handed Greyson the pen to fill in the few remaining blanks before he signed his name on the indicated line and handed Mr. Fransbergen the pen back.

“Thank you,” Greyson said, taking up the form.

Mr. Fransbergen, looking to be finishing off the last of his cigarette, nodded.

Greyson rose to his feet and headed toward the stairs to get in his SUV and drive it over to the trailer that, notwithstanding its dubious state, was his home, at least until something better came up.

“Wait,” Mr. Fransbergen said.

Stopping on the stair, Greyson turned and watched Mr. Fransbergen — whom he’d heard had risen and started following him — turn toward the door, opening it and reaching inside, producing the ring with the two keys on it that Greyson recognised from his first visit.

“This is the back door key,” Mr. Fransbergen said, holding the one key while the other dangled at the bottom of the ring, before switching the keys’ positions. “And this is the front door key.”

They looked virtually identical to Greyson, but he nodded and snatched the keys and ring out of the air as Mr. Fransbergen tossed them to him.

Mr. Fransbergen then turned back to the house, but a sudden question popped into Greyson’s head.

“Uh, by the way, do you raise livestock?” Greyson asked.

Straightening, Mr. Fransbergen went still and Greyson felt uneasy. Mr. Fransbergen turned and looked at Greyson with a suspicious, critical, examining gaze. “Chicken.”

“For meat or eggs?” Greyson asked.

“Meat,” Mr. Fransbergen replied.

Greyson nodded. That made sense. He’d never heard of a chicken auction; in fact, the very idea of it almost made him want to laugh. Chickens didn’t live long enough for that sort of thing, not even if they were allowed to live out their days. Chickens died of old age at two and three years old. Pigs and cattle could at least hit double-digit years before they started to slow down.