Drinking Life (Keeper of the Water Book 1) by Kevin George Page B

pharmacy next door. Several girls my age giggle as they look in the makeup aisle; I search for something far more serious. It takes me a while to find what I’m looking for but I finally locate it and fork over fifty bucks to the cashier, who looks at me strangely as I pay.
    “You know there’s an additional one-hundred dollar fee you have to send to the lab,” the elderly woman behind the counter says.
    I nod and rush out the store without waiting for my change. Once inside my Jeep, I rip open the box for the DNA test and follow the directions, using one swab inside my mouth and the other swab on the paper cup my mother drank from. I’m careful to swab a spot where no lemonade touched—I hope this works. The instructions say to include a check for lab fees but I only have cash and hope that’ll do. I don’t make much money teaching my shooting classes so it’s a good thing I haven’t spent a dime in months. I pack everything together and walk to the nearby mailbox. I stand in front of the mailbox for several minutes, pondering whether to send it off and possibly destroy everything I’ve ever known.
    I sigh deeply and drop it in.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I sprint through weeds as tall as me, no hesitation in any movement I make. I’m inside my own body—seeing what I see, experiencing what I experience—but there’s a disconnect between mind and body. I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing but I don’t give that a second thought. I simply accept that I’m going along for whatever ride my body takes me on.
    A bow is in my hand but it’s not my new one or any other I’ve ever used. In fact, it looks far more primitive than the ones I teach classes with. It’s made totally of wood but it’s not as smooth—I can tell it’s homemade without the use of tools. I don’t know what material the bowstring is made of but I see it’s not strung as tightly as I’m used to. All of these factors combined should make me nervous to use the bow but that’s not the case. I don’t ever remember feeling as confident as I do right now.
    My mind doesn’t know where I’m going but my feet do. Running is all that’s important to me. I don’t have another care in the world—no thoughts of my father in prison or the identity of my real mother or of John or Cassie or school… I only think of the hunt.
    I make no noise as I move, my feet barely touching the ground, my body causing no more change to the tall grass and brush than a slight breeze would. My eyes stay aimed down the entire time, following the tracks in the dirt. I seem to know exactly where they’re headed, can imagine what the huge beast looked like when he lumbered around this area just minutes earlier. This has to be a dream but it feels so real, like I’m reliving a memory long-forgotten instead of imagining something while asleep…
    I stop suddenly and take only a few small steps at a time, noticing that the tracks in the ground are deeper, more pronounced, fresher. I duck down and inch ahead before stopping to push aside some tall weeds. I’m dangerously close to a massive beast, a buffalo that easily weighs a ton. From this close, I can see its muscular body, not to mention its two-foot horns partially hidden within thick wooly hair. It grazes alone in the plentiful grasslands but a sudden breeze causes it to stop eating, lift its head, look around. Buffaloes aren’t as dumb or slow as they look but have poor eyesight, which suits me. I’m well-hidden in the tall weeds but have the feeling it senses me nearby. At this distance, I could not outrun the beast, whose horns could easily slash through me.
    I am cautious but not nervous. I can tell this is not the first time I’ve been so close to a dangerous situation. But the buffalo lowers its head and begins to munch on the abundance of grass yet again. I watch the beautiful beast for several minutes, appreciating its monstrous majesty, its place in nature. My thoughts almost remind me of poetry, not