Finding Miranda

CHAPTER 6: THE ALARM

Shepard Krausse worked nights. He exploited his hot-molasses baritone as host of a late-night radio program called Sheep Counters. His shtick was that his purpose in life was to serve the insomniacs whose conspiracy theories were keeping them awake. When the old trick of counting sheep didn't work, the sufferer could call in and commiserate with a shepherd—in this case, Shepard.

Yeah. Ha. Ha.

It was corny, but in rural north-central Florida the show was a staple and had a loyal following. Get it? Following? Sheep?

Well, it was what it was, and for Shep and Dave it was a living. Dave could come to work with his best friend, and Shep didn't have to cut his hair to work at a "real job" in the big city.

Of course, the silliest puns and the most regrettable jokes on the program were always attributed to Dave. Dave also served as purported researcher and all-around consultant on "the issues," which were whatever Shepard said they were.

This particular day was different in only one way: today Shep and Dave had talked to a castor bean tree, and they would never be the same. (Dave was totally smitten.) Who could have known that the dawn's routine after-work run would be a life changer?

Most days the pair worked their on-air shift from 11 p.m. to 3 a.m., commuted from Live Oak back home to Minokee, ran a few miles, then showered and collapsed into the deep sleep of the pure in heart. Today, Shepard had lain awake all day, hands behind his head, face toward the ceiling, debating with himself.

Despite his joking with Miranda about the foibles of Fearless Phyllis, Shep and his late neighbor, the elder Miss Ogilvy, had been on very friendly terms. She had worked days, and he had worked nights. Still, their ships had passed in the twilight from time to time, and even with, say, thirty years' difference in their ages (that's giving old Phyllis the benefit of significant doubt), they enjoyed one another's company.

Even when, as a child, Shepard had visited his grandparents' house—in which he now lived—he had never missed a chance to cross the two back yards to Phyllis' kitchen door. Phyllis had always greeted him warmly but very seriously. She was the first person in his life who had treated him like a responsible, self-sufficient human being with a good head on his shoulders. He was eight at the time.

Did he still have a good head on his shoulders? He wondered, blue eyes wide open as they had been for hours. Phyllis may have mentioned relatives in Miami. Shepard couldn't remember. He certainly didn't recall any prior knowledge that would have prepared him for Miranda Ogilvy, the transplanted, inheriting niece.

Assuming he was correct, that he had known nothing about Miranda until today, how could he be...? Well, he couldn't, that's all. But then, why did he feel so positive that he, that she, that they...? Well, he couldn't be positive, could he? And wasn't he a grown man with a normal, productive, contented life? He couldn't suddenly be incomplete because he had crossed paths with a stranger today.

Sure, he could.

No, he couldn't.

And what about Miranda? What would make him think that he impressed her as anything other than a consummate dolt? Nothing, that's what.

And so it went, round and round, hour after hour, and would have continued except that Dave, lying on the cool tile floor beside the bed as usual, suddenly raised his head and ears and whuffed. A second later, Shep heard someone enter through the back door.

"Sleep!" he whispered to Dave.

Dave dropped his chin onto his outstretched front paws and closed his eyes. Shepard rolled onto his side and curled into the fetal position under the covers. It was a stellar performance and did no good at all.