Even the city guard, who should have been watching the streets, leaned against the tavern wall with a flushed, red face. He raised a frothing mug of ale toward the sky, his laughter joining the chaotic roar of the celebration. He didn't see the sobbing child or the patches of hair missing from her head.
Hoppy ran with no direction. Every time a burst of laughter erupted from the crowd or a drunkard let out a triumphant holler from the tavern, the sound didn't register as a celebration in her mind.
To Hoppy, the noise was a trigger. The cheers of the city folk were replaced by the wet, rhythmic squelching of slimes and the agonizing screams of her neighbors back in Oozewell. The "Hero" they were shouting for was a ghost, just like the one she had prayed for when the village was being swallowed by the slimes.
"Mom..."
