Bigfoot Crossing

While Rose and I are built slim, like Mom, Dad is big. He's not just tall but also beefy, like a weight lifter. And he’s hairy. He wears his bushy black hair to his shoulders, except when he’s at work at his car-repair shop. Then he ties it up in a man bun.

Even his knuckles have hair on them. Honestly, he looks like one of those creatures himself. If anyone at school gets wind of Dad doing a Bigfoot call, I’ll never hear the end of it. And I can count on Rose for that. She’ll tell her little preschool friends. Who will tell their middle-school brothers and sisters. Who will follow me around school going–

“Woo-hoo!” Dad shouts.

“Seriously, Dad. You can’t–”

“Woo-hoo!” he calls again, all friendly. “Woo-hoo!”

Rose stirs on my shoulder. “What?” she asks.

For a panicked moment I think she’s going to wake right up. But then, thankfully, she slumps to my shoulder and starts to snore again.

“This is nuts,” I mumble. But then there’s the sound of a stick banging on a tree. And it’s close.

“There it is again!” Dad cries

We both listen. And then, sniffing, I ask, “What is that smell?”