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SATURDAY

"I'm not eating peaches ever," Field promised, with unintentional cuteness, "ever again." A squinty face. "Never." A squeak, and then a soft, little sigh, as he turned his neck to look out the side window.

It was so blatantly blue, so horrendously hot. Summery. That's what it was: summery. The un-glaciated hills, knowing this, undulated. 'We weren't tilled. We can do what we want. We can block your view and cage you in.' They were rolling, moving like strangers, impressively peppered with blankets of proud deciduous trees. No conifers that the mouse could detect. And all of it, somehow, still green. Green, green forests unfurling, curling around roads, as well as around creeks and streams which fed into nearby rivers. The colors were unlike those of the corn fields further north. No, the fields back home were crispy-tan and burnt-toffee-brown. The pastures and stretches of grass hurt to walk on. This summer hadn't been kind on the foot-paws. But, then, that was among the least serious consequences born from this alarming drought.

And, despite the looks of the trees, Southern Indiana hadn't been spared from the perpetual 90-degree dryness. There was evidence here. In water levels and dead shrubs and crinkled, fallen leaves. One got the impression that the 'autumn fireworks' were going to start a few weeks early this year. Just like how the crops were all coming early (and, no, that wasn't a good thing).

In the end, though, trees were trees, and they hid their deficiencies well. Better than fields, better than open spaces. Better than furs.

"You still on the peaches?" Adelaide inquired, her swept-back, angular ears well-tuned to his breathing, his squeaks. And her mind well tuned to his mind. They were, in most every way, stuck on each other.

"What?"

"You still got peaches rollin' about your head?"

"Maybe," Field admitted, in a squeaky, whisker-twitching way. She knew the answer, of course. He couldn't keep anything from her. And he didn't want to. He loved her dearly, with a pressing passion. And, so, he couldn't help but changing his answer to, "Yes."

"Yes?"

"I got peaches in my head." A pause. "Take them out?"

A mirthful smile, giving no immediate response. Only, "Well, I've heard at least a hundred times, now, that you're ... "

" ... never."

" ... eating them again, so ... "

" ... never," he said, yet again, in his wispy voice, shaking his head for emphasis. This was followed by a pause. Then more whisker-twitching. Soon, he was absently tugging at his seatbelt. "They're clammy and ... and yellow." A pause. "And gross," he added, whiskers twitching.

"Seatbelts?" Adelaide asked, in jest.

"Peaches." He made a funny face at her.

A smile melted on her muzzle. She couldn't stay mad at him. He was too cute. Too, too cute. Oh, my delicious mouse, she thought. Oh, I could eat you up. Oh, how you taste on my lips. Oh, the cadence of your heart, the heat of your hips.

"You're gripping that steering wheel kinda tight," he noticed.

She swallowed, licking her dry lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah ... what you thinkin' about," he breathed, beginning to guess.

"Peaches," she answered, with a playful, teasing tone.

"Were not."

"I was, Field. I totally ... "

" ... no such thing. You were never even thinking of ... "

" ... peaches."

"No, you were thinking of ... " He trailed. Finishing, at a whisper, " ... things that don't involve peaches."

"We've used fruit before," she reminded, grinning.

His ears flushed, going beet-red. And, biting his lip, he managed, "Not peaches."

"No. Strawberries, though. Blueberries, pineapple ... we've used bananas," she added.

"Adelaide ... " The mouse was still blushing. Even in private, he tended to blush. As if self-conscious to the fact that God was hearing every word.

"What?" She held that toothy grin.

The mouse shook his head. "Just ... teasin' me," he whispered, squirming a bit in the passenger seat, looking around, whiskers twitching some more. More. And more. Twitch-twitch. He opened his muzzle.

"Go ahead," Adelaide finally said, interrupting him before he could speak. "Ask."

"You don't even ... "

" ... know what you were gonna say?" A raised brow.

"Okay, so you do," he whispered. A pause. And a sigh, going ahead with the question: "Are we there yet?" He looked to her with innocence. With complete trust and dependence. His tail, somewhat pinned between his body and the seat, gave a few wriggles. And he squirmed some more, letting it loose. It roved about the dashboard, now.

Adelaide just smiled wider, her paws securely on the steering wheel. Deep-pink eyes looking straight ahead as she drove. "Another hour, maybe," was her best guess. "Thought you liked traveling. We never get to do it." Her short, sturdy rudder-tail was comfortably nestled behind her, and her bare foot-paw was pressing down on the pedals. Gas pedal. Brake pedal. Each in turn, when required.

"I do like traveling. It's just ... can't sit still," he whispered, distractedly. He tugged at his seatbelt again. Not because he didn't like wearing it. He always wore them. He didn't feel safe, otherwise. No, it was just a habit. To tug at it, adjust it. Something to occupy his increasingly-nervous paws. "We've been on the road for, like, two or three hours," he whispered, looking to the floor of their truck. It was an older truck. It had dust on it, because they lived on a gravel road.

"Do you have to go to the bathroom?"

"Not yet."

"Well, then we're not stoppin'. It'd add to the trip. We don't know how race traffic's gonna be, and we wanna get there at least an hour and a half before. And we got food in the cooler," she said, nodding to the floor, "by your foot-paws. If you're hungry."

"I'm not hungry." A pause, biting his lip. "Mouses aren't meant to ... " A whisker-twitch. " ... be so still," he breathed, as if he were performing an incredible feat, "for so long. I need to move. I need to ... "

" ... calm down," she soothed. "Is what you need to do." A pause. "You're like those hummingbirds. Antsy," she declared.

"Yeah ... maybe," he relented. His eyes darted a bit. "I don't know what's got into them." Field had a hummingbird feeder hanging on the bell-post by their front porch. He filled it with sugar water once a week (four parts water to one part sugar). Normally, the hum-birds were well-behaved. One male and one femme. And they drank in turns. Now, though, during the past week? There were three pairs! And they'd taken to being very antsy, indeed. They'd taken up the dangerous art of dueling. The femmes, mainly. One femme would zip to a beak-opening, take the perch, and commence drinking. Lap-lapping the 'nectar' so incredibly fast. Just like how her heart was beating so, so fast. And her wings. Hummingbirds did everything fast.

Anyhow, she'd only get a few seconds before another femme would dive-bomb in, like a jeweled spirit, thrum-humming with audible distinctness, shimmering an emerald-green and opal-white. Aiming her pointed bill like a weapon and squeaking something fierce. For hummingbirds did, of course, make sounds other than unintentional, full-bodied hums. They squeaked and chittered. Just like mouses. Adelaide often insisted this was why Field liked them so much. Upon which Field would say, 'That's not the only reason.' And that always made the bat chitter, herself, with mirth. But, as for the hummingbirds, they chittered with displeasure when they got dive-bombed. And they alighted, swirling, whirling, a tiny, feathered dervish. They went round and round, in dizzying chases. Then one of the femmes would come back, drink, and get harassed again.

Where the males were while all this was going on, Field didn't know.

"I was priding myself on my hummingbirds being so mature," the mouse continued, with a very thoughtful look on his face. "The ones at my grandparents' house?"

"Troublemakers," Adelaide supplied, grinning. She'd seen them. (Though she wasn't smiling at the thought of hummingbirds; rather, because Field taking the behavior of their resident hummingbirds so seriously was, truthfully, cutely amusing. There's that word again, the bat told herself. 'Cute.')

"They are. They are troublemakers," he insisted, in his soft, effeminate way. "They are, and ... mine weren't. Until now." A shake of the head.

Adelaide cleared her throat, trying not to laugh.

The mouse looked over to her.

"What?" she asked, composing herself. Feigning innocence. Eyes scanning the road ahead. A car passed them, going about ten miles per hour faster than they were (and Adelaide was already driving five miles per hour above the speed limit).

"It doesn't bother you. Them fighting."

"Field ... "

"Well, when one of the hummingbirds ends up pierced to death," he began, somewhat dramatically.

" ... come on, darling, that's not gonna happen. They know what they're doing."

"Playing 'chicken' with swords for beaks at breakneck speeds?"

"Afraid their hearts can't take it? They beat five hundred times per minute, don't they?"

"Yeah ... "

"Enjoy 'em. They put on a show. They're beautiful. God's art," she said.

Field, after a few quiet breaths, gave a relenting smile. "I know," he whispered. "I just ... they're so enigmatic. They're so ... "

" ... captivating?"

"Not just hummingbirds. All birds. Just ... but especially hummingbirds. I mean, how's it possible that they're so fast all over, even inside? How can they sustain that without exploding or dropping over? How can they fly?" A pause, breathing through the nose. "I wish I could write stories, poems, something ... for God. Praising Him for the beauty of His work. I want Him to know I appreciate it, and," the mouse breathed, "that I see Him reflected in all of it. I want Him to know," he continued, "how much I love Him."

"He knows. You tell him every day. You pray," Adelaide observed.

"But I want to make things for Him."

"You do. You're artistic."

"But ... "

" ... Field, you do your best," the bat insisted. "And the way you can best repay Him for His art is to make your life," she told him, "a work of art. In your actions, your emotions, your ... you know you do that. Your love and kindness. Your faith. The way you care for Akira. And for me," she whispered. "Don't worry about not doing enough. Don't worry about not showing enough gratitude, because you show plenty. It's just ... subtle and soft. It's not grand and flashy. And I don't think God goes for grand and flashy very often."

The mouse bit his lip, smiling shyly. And he nodded a bit, comforted by his wife's words. And breathing, "Yeah ... mm, Adelaide ... "

" ... what?"

"Thank you."

"For ... "

" ... keeping me from scurrying myself senseless. Giving me perspective."

A smile, eying the rearview mirror for a moment. She said nothing.

"So, uh ... how long 'til we get there?" the mouse repeated, getting back on topic.

She stole a quick look at him, before returning her eyes to the road. "Another hour, okay? We'll have a big, long walk around the track and the souvenir area. You'll burn that energy, for sure. Let's not worry about it."

A swallow.

"Okay?"

A soft exhale, and a softer nod. And a soft, "Yeah ... " He leaned back.

"There we go."

The mouse closed his eyes for a moment. Adelaide's telepathic 'feelers' gently massaging his mind, gently calming him. Another breath. And another sigh.

"That's it ... "

Breathing inward through his pink, sniffy nose, Field went, "Adelaide ... "

" ... yeah?" Her paw flipped on the turn signal. She twisted her neck a bit, then turned it back, switching lanes. They were on I-74, cutting through Dearborn County. A mile or so from the Ohio border. Once into Ohio, they would stay on this interstate until the 275 split, which would curve them back into Indiana. And, ultimately, across the Ohio River and into Kentucky. They would keep going, then, until they reached I-75. Then bail at I-71. It was a fast, complicated route. Lots of interstates. Lots of new town-names and sights. Lots of traffic.

Their destination was Sparta, Kentucky. They were going to the Indy Car race tonight. It was 4 PM right now, and the race started around 7. They had two tickets. This was, in fact, an entire weekend getaway for them. They'd planned it a few months ago. Akira, their daughter, was staying with Field's parents. And both Field and Adelaide had the weekend off (from the orchard and library, respectively). So, the Kentucky race tonight. Then, tomorrow, they'd go to a Reds baseball game in Cincinnati, Ohio. Then head home. It was only a two-day getaway, but it was something. It was the two of them traveling together, seeing things, talking, romancing. It was two days without a baby girl in tow. It was two days, and they were going to make the most of it.

"What hotel are we staying at?" Field asked, much calmer.

"Red Roof Inn. In, uh ... Florence. Near the airport."

"Whose airport?" The mouse's eyes were still closed.

"Cincinnati's."

A pause. "Why's Cincinnati's airport in Kentucky?"

"The same reason why Indiana's ex-capitals were practically in other states," was Adelaide's non-answer. Her way of saying 'I don't know.'

"Oh."

A pause.

"Adelaide?"

"Yeah?" she asked, eying the rearview mirror. Then glancing at the speedometer. Then checking the traffic, eyes glued ahead.

"I don't know," was all Field said, whiskers twitching.

But the telepathic bat did know. "You're still thinking about peaches, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"You've never liked them, though. It's not anything new."

"Well ... "

" ... so, disavowing them for life," she continued, smiling at the silliness of this whole ordeal, "isn't much of a loss, is it? I mean, it's not gonna hurt you."

"That's not even the point."

"No?"

"No," the mouse emphasized, whiskers twitching.

"Alright."

"I'm serious. I'm never eating peaches again."

"I believe you." Her toothy smile became a toothy grin. "This ... what is this? Portuguese stubbornness, by chance? You get that from your mother, you know."

Field said nothing to that.

"So, it's ... "

" ... regular Hoosier stubbornness," he responded, quietly. "One hundred percent American stubbornness." A little pause. And an admitted, "Mouse stubbornness."

"Ah, mouse stubbornness. The best kind ... "

"What do you mean?" He looked to her, confused.

"Nothing. Only, you can't quite," she breathed, "pull it off."

"What?" he went, confused.

"No, just ... when you get all stubborn, it's just ... " A smile, trying to phrase this without belittling his emotions. " ... just kinda cute, is all."

"Cute? I'm cute when I'm stubborn?"

"No, you're cute all the time, darling," she assured, honestly, making a flirtatious chitter-sound. And an over-obvious wink. She giggled, her paw descending on the brake. Traffic was getting tighter up here. "Even so, how 'bout you drop the peach-talk? Hmm? You're startin' to make me dislike 'em, too."

"Well, you should," Field insisted, firing up again. "Everyone should ... "

Recently, Field had developed a newfound loathing for peaches. Ginger-golds were fine. Most apples, really, were fine. Melons? Melons, too (even if they were a bit heavy to move). Sorting and inspecting any other fruit wasn't a bother. But peaches? On Friday, at work (at the orchard), he'd been assigned to sort through peaches: 2,500 pounds of them.

Fifty bushels, five bins, one hundred baskets.

However you put it, it was too many peaches. (And, as a side note, if you said the word 'peaches' too money times, you were likely to get a stomachache. Field knew this to be true. Even if Adelaide had giggle-chittered at the idea.)

The first hour, though, hadn't been that bad. It'd been kind of fun. Kind of. Picking up peaches, feeling the fuzz, turning them end over end. At least it got him out of the heat. 'At least I'm not hoeing or tilling again,' he'd thought. On top of that, there was also the fact that a 'peach avalanche,' with peaches falling all over each other in a big, wooden bin, made an oddly pleasant sound.

Bump-a-bump-bump-bump.

It hadn't been so bad, no.

Not at first.

Not really.

But, then, an hour had turned to two.

To three.

Four!

Eventually, sitting on a card-table chair and bending over and doing solitary scans of each and every peach (checking for soft spots and split pits) began to hurt his neck. And his back. And drove him stir-crazy. Mouses weren't meant for sitting still for such long periods of time. And he'd been sitting still for four hours!

Then, when he finally got his break, he'd had a bad lunch. He'd been twitching and jerking too heavily to calm down. Which had resulted in him eating too quickly. Which upset his stomach (for real, this time; not just from hearing furs say the word 'peaches'). Which made returning to the peaches an even worse prospect than before. And, also, the air was muggy and hot in the warehouse, and you got sweat-matted even when sitting down.

By the end of the day, he'd come to loathe peaches. He wanted to get a baseball bat and hit them all into the fields, smash them to gooey, pit-anchored smithereens. He'd wanted to. But, of course, that would've been an overreaction.

And I'm a mature mouse, Field told himself. I'm twenty-three, married, have a child. I'm a mature mouse.

Which is why, he told himself, you shouldn't use a baseball bat to destroy the peaches.

You should put them on golf tees and use a wooden driver.

But, no, he didn't own golf clubs. So, he couldn't do that.

He did have fun, though, dreaming of ways to demolish the peaches. That occupied him for quite some time.

Still, the clammy, fuzzy feel and the sickly-sweet smell of the red havens, the coral and fire stars, the Michigan yellows, the Indiana whites, was too much. Too much to take! Oh, yes, he loved his job. It was much better than working in the restaurant. It was very close to home, in the countryside, and dealt with agriculture. He enjoyed it.

He just didn't enjoy peaches.

And, to make matters worse, all the customers would come in and absolutely fawn over the peaches, like they were the golden jewels of Midwestern produce. Field, in his head, bet himself that those unabashed peach-lovers would look at their pitted friends a bit differently if they had to spent nine hours a day touching and staring at them. Being this intimate with a fruit (of any variety) was extremely unnerving.

No, the only thing Field wanted to be touching and staring at was his wife's body. Which had lead, finally, to straying thoughts, to sexual flights of fancy. Which had led to him being very 'worked up' when it came time to clock out. Needless to say, he'd wasted no time in getting home. And when he did ...

" ... darling?"

"Mm?" The mouse, back in the present, blinked. His thoughts interrupted. A clearing of the throat and more blinking. "Mm? What? What ... "

" ... lost you there. For just a bit," she said.

"I was, uh ... "

" ... uh-huh." A fang-showing grin. "You were definitely headed in that direction."

"I was just about to remember ... "

" ... the part where I made you forget about peaches. Mm-hmm." She licked her fangs, those sharp, pearly-white things. "Well, hopefully, this weekend will get them out of your head once and for all."

Field said nothing to this. He just continued looking out the passenger window. And tried to hide his grin while the truck passed a big, blue sign that said 'Welcome to Ohio.' And, looking back to Adelaide, he said, "Once and for all?"

"You'll be so dazed that you won't know what a peach is," she told him, with sizzling certainty. "Let's put it that way."

A giggle-squeak, feeling very hot beneath the cheeks. "Uh ... okay."

Adelaide giggle-chittered, adjusting the air conditioning in the truck. It was getting a bit hot in here, wasn't it?

"It must be ninety-nine degrees out there." Field stared out the windshield. "Supposed to be the same tomorrow." A pause. "We're gonna roast. In this fur?" he said, whiskers twitching.

"Let's not worry about it," Adelaide said simply (yet again), at a calm whisper. Though her pupils were notably dilated.

Field saw this. And swallowed. Letting out a deep sigh, fidgeting with his seatbelt strap more intently than before.

Ten minutes or so later, Field sat to attention, eyes wide and bright. "Yay!" he went, in his gentle, wispy voice. "Yay ... Adelaide, look," he said, pointing. His body was flushed with 'mousey motions.'

"I see it," she said, lips curling up in a smile.

A squeaky clearing of his throat. "Back home again ... "

" ... here we go," Adelaide whispered, having anticipated this.

" ... in Indiana, and it seems that I can see," he sang, with happy fondness. As if he'd been away for quite some time (when, in fact, it'd only been ten minutes).

" ... you know this interstate curves, right? We're gonna be in Kentucky ... "

" ... the gleaming candlelight, still burning bright ... "

" ... in, like, a minute? Mm?" A raised brow. A smile.

" ... through the sycamore for me. The new-mown hay ... "

" ... I would make this a duet, but I'm too enamored ... "

" ... spreads all its fragrance, across the fields I used to roam ... "

" ... with your singing," she teased, "to steal your spotlight." A giggle-chitter, followed by more. "You're not listening to me, are you? Field?"

" ... when I dream about the moonlight on the Wabash, how I long for my Indiana home!" Several squeaks and chitters, and then a heavy sigh. And he looked to his wife, smiling widely (so that the dimples showed on his furry cheeks). "How bout that?" he asked.

"Feel better?" she asked.

"Mm-hmm."

"Good ... you don't know a song about Kentucky, do you?"

"No. Why?" An innocent blink.

"Cause we're there."

"What?" More blinks, looking out the window, seeing the sign pass. A scrunch-face. "What ... "

Adelaide giggle-chittered.

"Well ... "

" ... you'll be 'back home again' tomorrow night. Wouldn't worry about it."

"I'm not worried 'bout it. My Hoosier-ness is impenetrable." He crossed his arms in a show of mock-stubbornness.

"Yeah?" A giggle-chitter.

"I'm just worried 'bout you, is all." His arms uncrossed, and his paws held to his own tail. "I gotta watch those pretty wings o' yours. You might start sayin' 'Lou-uh-vole' instead of 'Loo-eeh-ville' ... and you might start liking horse racing instead of auto racing," he continued, with over-the-top distress.

"I don't think so," Adelaide assured.

But Field wouldn't let up. "Or you might start thinking Ohio is the center of the universe." A pause. And a roll of the eyes. "Seriously, anyone who calls their main university 'THE Ohio State University' ... they think that's cool? I bet they go around saying 'I'm from THE state of Ohio.' And I bet they're clueless enough to ask 'what's Hoosier mean'?" A shake of the head. "Some furs," he said, with a sigh.

"What does it mean, Field? Hoosier?"

The mouse squinted at his wife, giving a cheeky, "It means someone from Indiana. That's all anyone needs to know."

Adelaide licked her fangs. "And anyone who wants a more-detailed explanation than that ... "

" ... just doesn't get it. They just don't get it."

"And they don't get it ... "

" ... cause they're not a Hoosier," the mouse stated, definitively. "You gotta be one to know what one is. It's in the blood."

"Well, I wasn't born on Hoosier soil. I was born in Australia."

"Well, you're an adopted Hoosier. You've been one for so long that it's seeped into your blood ... "

" ... where do you come up with this, mm? There a Hoosier rules and regulations handbook?"

" ... and made you one. No, it's common sense," he assured.

"Oh, I see. I see," Adelaide replied, grinning widely, as they kept driving toward their destination.

Kentucky Motor Speedway - Sparta, Kentucky

When Field and Adelaide got to the track, they parked in the grass, in the sloping, forest-surrounded outfield, just north of the facility. They were directed by an unusually-enthusiastic traffic volunteer, who pointed his arms and paws like he was doing a dance routine. The mouse and bat shared a few giggles over this. When they got out of the truck, the sun was high and hot, still golden, still going across the sky. It was sweaty weather, for sure. It was fur-matted weather. There was nothing one could do about it.

And, with nothing to bring into the gates other than their tickets and themselves, they began their walk. They could see the backside of the track, the tallest part. The suites, the towers. It must seat 80,000, this place. 55,000 tickets had been sold for tonight's event, so the crowd would have a bit of breathing room. They wouldn't be packed in like sardines.

The track itself had a fourteen-degree banking, several passing grooves. It was a one-and-a-half mile tri-oval, very racy, very appealing. It was in the middle of 'nowhere.' Sparta was a rural community. There were no tall buildings or well-known businesses anywhere around. It was just off the interstate, surrounded by hills of bluegrass. And it had a very excitable atmosphere.

Eventually, Field and Adelaide reached the gates. Once inside, they hit the souvenir trailers first ...

" ... one of these, uh, stickers. You put on your back window." Field took one off the peg. "See? 26." His ears swivelled absently, and his pink nose went sniffy-sniff-sniff.

"Decals," Adelaide supplied, nodding, scanning the numbered stickers.

"No, car numbers, you know. Car numbers of your favorite drivers. You wanna get one ... "

" ... decals," the pink, carnation, cotton candy-colored bat repeated again.

"Well ... "

" ... they only got Andretti-Green. 7, 11, 26, 27 ... I mean, if you want one ... "

" ... well, I'm just saying," was all Field said, putting the Marco sticker back on its peg. They were under a big, white tent, an official 'Indy Car Series' merchandise tent. The chatter of furs was evident, was clearly heard. And the mouse stuck very close to Adelaide. He wasn't the best in crowds. But when she was with him, it was fine. If they got separated in the crowd? Well, he wasn't going to let that happen.

Maybe a less understanding femme would've told him to stop, accused him of being 'clingy.' Accused him of 'invading my space.' But she knew that would hurt his feelings. She knew he loved her. She knew how mouses were. And, so, simply said, "You wanna get out of this tent? Into open air?"

A tiny, distracted nod. "Yeah, but ... not yet," he whispered, looking around. "There's still more stuff I wanna look at." He turned to meet her gaze, from just a foot or so away. "You don't mind?"

"Browsing? Course not."

"Well, it's just ... you know, if you wanted to head to our seats," he said, trailing.

"I'm happy browsing with you," she assured. "Don't worry about it, okay? I'm watchin' out for you."

The mouse bit his lip, giving a shy, grateful smile. "Okay," he whispered, barely audible. And a deep inhale, followed by an equally deep exhale. "The toy cars," he said, pointing, moving toward them.

Adelaide, holding to his silky-thin, ropy tail, followed him. They jostled past fans adorned in team hats and shirts. And above the sound of the chatter, the track's public address system could be heard. Interviews were being done with drivers. Track statistics and facts were being given. Occasionally, a cheer could be heard from those in their seats.

"Look it. Adelaide, look," Field said, excitedly, eyes wide. He was like a little boy, sometimes, when he got excited. "Look at these," he kept saying, of the toy cars.

"I see 'em," she assured, sidling up beside him. "You got some o' these already."

"I don't got this one," he said, "or that one ... " A nod at two of the cars he was interested in. They were the big cars. He had most of the small cars (sixty-odd, collected over the course of many years), which were eight dollars a car. You could only get the toy Indy Cars at the races (or the Speedway in Indiana). They only made a few thousand of each, so they were limited editions. The big cars, however, were more detailed. And, of course, bigger! And they were forty dollars each. He didn't have nearly as many of those (only three). "Which one should I get?"

"Well, you've been itching after that one," she said, tapping the 'Scott Sharp' box.

" ... yeah. Yeah, this one." He took it off the shelf, eyes wide. His nose sniffed some more, as if smelling the box.

"Pretty," she remarked.

"Yeah," Field breathed. The car was jet-black with lime-green streaks. The sponsor was an upscale tequila. "I mean, I don't have this one. I have Sam's, Marco's ... Danica's. This one is Scott's." All four happened to be American drivers, though the series had drivers from many countries. There were several Brazilians and English-furs, as well as Scottish, Japanese, and South African drivers, and a driver from New Zealand, too. But Sam (three-time Indy Car champion and one-time 500 winner) was his favorite. Then Marco close behind (and Marco was actually younger than Field; he was only twenty, and that made Field feel kind of strange, cause his favorite drivers had always been older than him). And he liked Danica, too.

Ultimately, he liked all the drivers. Auto racing wasn't like team sports for Field. In team sports, you liked one or two teams, and you lived or died with those teams. If those teams were out if it, the season was over. When it came to auto racing, though, his three favorite drivers could all fall out and he'd still find someone to happily root for. If only two drivers were left on the track, he'd still be happy with whoever won.

"I know which ones you have," Adelaide assured, patiently. "Sure you wouldn't you rather get Dario's, though? He won the 500 in that car."

"Mm. Yeah," the mouse went. The 500 was his favorite race. His favorite sporting event. Any driver who won the 500 became a favorite of his. "That's a good car ... "

" ... but?"

"But I already have two AGR cars. I don't wanna have three. I want a variety, and ... this one's Rahal-Letterman. And we met Scott before, remember? He spoke at my aunt's church. A year ago ... "

" ... yeah, I remember."

"And it looks so good. Look at this paint scheme ... look."

"I see. I see it," the bat insisted. A helpless smile. "So ... "

" ... this is the one I want," the mouse insisted, nodding. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What are you gonna get?

"I'll get an event pin."

"That's all?" he asked, feeling a bit guilty. "Well ... "

" ... Field, we're on a budget, is all. I just want an event pin."

"I can put the car back," he insisted.

"Darling, come on. Don't do this," she said, of him going on a guilt trip. "I want you to have the car. I'm perfectly content with a pin. Anyway, I collect event pins. You collect cars." A nod at him. "Alright?"

Field nodded lightly.

"That amounts to fifty dollars," Adelaide said, calculating. "After tax. We got, uh, 300 for this entire weekend. Not including the race or baseball tickets. Those were paid for earlier. But ... so, gas, hotel, food, souvenirs. So, uh ... " She calculated in her head. 80 for the hotel. 50, now, on race souvenirs. 30 on gas tomorrow. 40 for food here and at the baseball game. Which left more than enough for souvenirs in Cincinnati and dinner on the way home tomorrow night. And anything else that might come up. They'd been saving for this trip for four/five months. "Alright ... "

" ... it's fine?" Field asked, eyes glowing as he looked at his chosen toy car.

"Mm-hmm. Come on, let's pay over here."

"Oh, but before we go back to our seats, I wanna take pictures of the cars they got set out." The mouse had their digital camera in his pocket. "I can get some good pictures, and ... " He went on and on, like a regular blabber-mouse.

Adelaide smiled at him.

"What?" he asked, suddenly quieting.

"You're excited."

"I like races." A pause. And, more to the point, "I like being at races with you."

"So sweet," she commented, barely audible. Whispering it. And adding, "It just ... excites me," she breathed, "to see you excited."

"Excitable mouses are contagious?" he asked, with wide-eyed cuteness, his tail snaking about in the tent-shade.

"You bet they are," the bat breathed, eying him hungrily. "Now, come on. Got a lot to see and do," she said, as they went for the check-out stand. It only took them a few minutes to get through. Upon which, they left the big, white tent and browsed in front of the team trailers for a bit, and then wandered back into the main gates, where some actual race cars were set out. You could get right up to them.

The mouse, with his camera out, bent down. And then got to his knees. Twisted and wriggled in all sorts of directions. A good photographer got the shot, no matter how he had to contort himself. And no matter if a crowd was staring at him. His ears getting rosy-pink, he took the pictures (some in color, some in black-and-white) as quickly as he could. "Awesome," he whispered to himself, as he stood. He planned on taking many pictures this weekend. These were just the first.

Adelaide, spreading her winged arms (to catch the weak, weak breeze) sighed. She flapped a few times, and then lowered her wings back to her sides, her ears arching. Sounds of cooking. And ...

... Field, nose sniffing, said, "I smell food."

"Track fries. Track ... stuff. Hold on," Adelaide said, tugging his tail. "You done taking pictures of that car?"

"For the moment." A blink.

The bat grinned. "Well, let's get some food, then."

Field nodded, following her, pocketing his camera. Not knowing what Adelaide had smelled. But soon finding out. "Fried crickets? What? Adelaide ... "

" ... what, you want some, too? Two orders?"

"No." The mouse made a scrunched-up face. "No way."

"No cicada clusters? No ice cream drizzled with dragonfly bits?"

"Adelaide," he went, his face scrunching up some more.

The bat giggle-chittered brightly, the line getting shorter. One of her favorite things to do was attempt to get her husband to eat bugs. They were a necessary part of a bat's diet. But not a mouse's diet. Mouses, being all about finesse, didn't enjoy bugs. But she would slip them into spaghetti sauce, broccoli. Everything. Once, she'd made 'blueberry bug muffins,' and Field had taken a few bites before figuring it out. A rare instance of his nose failing him. And, of course, their daughter ate bugs. Field wasn't very pleased with this, but she was half-bat. So, she needed them. Anyway, soon, Adelaide was at the front of the food line. She placed her order and gave Field a toothy grin. "I'll share. I promise."

"I'm getting something else," he assured, dryly, looking around. Lightly swinging his souvenir bag (which stated, in bold, black letters 'I am Indy'). There were many food vendors. And he could smell all the food cooking, baking. He could see steam rising from certain tents. He could hear grills going.

Adelaide, with her food in paw, came away from the check-out counter. She had a paper cup of fried crickets. "Just like French fries," she insisted, popping one into her mouth.

"You and your bugs," was all Field said, hiding a smile.

"You kiss and lick a muzzle that eats bugs," she reminded. "And you like it. Just remember that."

"I do remember."

"Fried cricket?" She held out a paw as they threaded through the crowd (and the late-day sun).

"I'll pass," he indicated solidly, sniffing the air. They continued walking. And, eventually, Field tugged her to a frozen treat stand, where he got a frozen strawberry lemonade. As well as some 'track fries' and a lemon-lime soda.

"That'll do you for the race, I think."

"Mm-hmm," he agreed, nose sniffing some more. And they began to head for their seats. The track wasn't elevated. The stands didn't rise up from the ground. They sank into it. The facility had been built, basically, in a bowl in the ground. A depression. Under your seats, there weren't support struts or pylons. Under your seats, it was dirt. Turn four, the front-stretch, and turn one were all supported by the hill. Turn two, the back-stretch, and turn three were all on flat land. It was a neat, little track, with a great line of sight. You could see all the way around. You could follow each car without interruption.

"Not as impressive as the Speedway," Adelaide said. "But very nice. You can see the whole track here, though ... that's great." Indy was so big (at two and a half miles, and being a rectangular-oval) that you couldn't see all the way around. You could only see a third of the track from any particular location. But it hardly mattered, cause it was Indy, and you didn't notice.

"Yeah," Field agreed, happily. And they went a few rows down from the top, turning left. They were at the end of the row, near the aisle. And being far up, they had an easy exit to the 'platform' where the restrooms and concessions were. You could, actually, see the entire track while at some of the concession stands. "Mm. Adelaide ... "

"What?" She chomped on a fried cricket. "I didn't get a drink. You gonna share your soda?"

"You gonna backwash bug limbs into it?" the mouse asked, squinting suspiciously.

"No." A fang-showing grin.

"Adelaide," the mouse went, very seriously. His whiskers twitched.

"I won't, I won't," she promised. "Come on, give me a sip."

Field gave her the drink. They shared the same straw, as well. And the mouse started on his frozen lemonade first. Cause he was hot. The sun was sinking, and evening was at paw, but it wasn't dark yet. And the heat was lingering for a while longer. But it would cool off soon enough, surely. His fur, though, was matted to his body. He was damp with sweat and his whiskers drooped as they twitched. "When do you think," he piped up, twirling his white, plastic spoon, "we should bring Akira to a race?" He looked out across the track, at the infield, the garages. To the pits, where the cars were already lined up on pit road. The announcers on the loud-speakers were in their pre-race mode.

"When?" Adelaide repeated, chewing. "Mm." A swallow. "Not now. I mean, she wouldn't sit through it."

"Well, I know, but ... like, I went to my first race," Field said, "when I was six. So, like, in a few years ... "

" ... we'll bring her," Adelaide promised.

Field smiled. "I think she'd like it. It's something we can share and do together, and ... when she grows up."

Adelaide, taking another sip of their shared soda, nodded, and then gave him a smile. "She'll enjoy it. She loves you."

Field bit his lip, eyes bright. "Mm. I hope she's okay."

"She's fine. Your parents know what they're doing."

"I know. I just ... been a long time, or, like ... well, never," Field insisted, "since we were away from her for more than a day."

"Two days isn't that long. And it's pretty pleasant having moments to ourselves. You want her in your arms, now, but when we get home and she wakes us up in the middle of the night with her crying ... "

" ... still, you know what I mean. It's just ... feels strange. When your child is a hundred or so miles away. We've never been that far away from her."

"I know," Adelaide whispered, leaning her head on Field's shoulder. She closed her eyes. "It's alright. Just let's," she said, "enjoy ourselves, mm?" Eyes opening, her head went upright again. And she scanned the track. "This is gonna be fun."

An hour and a half later, and Field, with orange, foam earplugs in, gave a wide-eyed squeak. On the backstretch, Danica's jet-black and neon-blue number seven car blew a right-rear tile while getting back up to speed, doing several all-around spins before checking into the wall. With the track already under yellow, she nearly hit a safety truck in the process. The crowd gasped.

This came only minutes after the spectacular crash that had brought out the yellow, with Dario's Canadian Club (a whiskey sponsor) car getting into the back of a brake-checking Kosuke, sending Dario's back end up and over. The car did an airborne somersault, tail over nose, coming down on its side, sliding, sliding hard into the Turn One SAFER barrier (the walls in all the turns were supported with energy-absorbing foam, to shunt the crash-impacts from the drivers to the track). The car then bounced off, spinning, shredding, flinging pieces.

What made all of this odd was that: it was the second race in a row that Danica had blown a tire. And the second race in a row that Dario had gone completely airborne and done a 360 while up there. What were the odds of that? With all the fine-tuned technology in use? How could such mistakes happen consecutively?

Not bothering to speak out loud (the humming, ethanol-powered engines of the cars made it impossible to hold a steady conversation), Adelaide used her telepathy to tell Field: He should be getting frequent flier miles by now.

The mouse nodded in distracted agreement. What a crash! It had been worse than the one at Michigan, which he'd only seen on television. And to see this one in the fur. He couldn't believe it. He kept blinking and squinting, looking over the Turn One, hoping Dario would get out of the car.

I think he's okay. Look at that screen over there.

Sure enough, it showed him climbing out of the car. The crowd, at this, erupted into cheers and claps. The opposite of what would happen at a stock car race. At stock car races (like NASCAR), the crowds cheered when drivers wrecked and booed when they got out of their cars. Which was only part of the reason why open-wheel and stock car fans didn't get along very well. They approached racing with radically-different mind-sets. Field, however, enjoyed stock car racing well enough. He wasn't one to harbor animosity. Still, though, his love was open-wheel. And it would always be.

Dario's crash, while scary, had been eye-popping. And, by the grace of God's paw, he'd been unscathed. Just like last time. Furthermore, Dario's points lead was taking punches to the gut. Five races ago, he'd led by 64. Then 47. Then 33. Then 24. Now, if Scott Dixon held his current position to the end, Dario's lead would be down to a measly 8, which was only the difference between first and second positions. And there were still three races to go after this.

Field was hoping Dario wasn't letting these freak crashes rattle him. What if they went to his head? After winning Indy and having the best season of his career, would the 'Flying Scot' be remembered for blowing the whole thing?

This race, thus far, had been very racy, lots of side-by-side passing, high speeds (in the 218 range). And the consequences of it were going to be even more interesting. As for Danica, she only had three races left to shut everyone up. Else she'd have to hear the no-win criticism for another long, five-month hiatus.

I'm glad we came. You're having fun, right?

Field nodded, giving his wife a smile.

Good.

And Field and Adelaide thought-conversed for a little bit. She sent him her thoughts and then telepathically read his responses. The bat adjusted her earplugs. Field adjusted his, as well. He didn't want them to fall out (cause that would hurt).

The sun had gone down, but it wasn't dark yet. It was dim, perhaps. And the track-lights were beginning to come on. There were still twenty laps to go, and the wreck was being quickly cleaned up, and it was almost time for green-flag racing.

And an unexpected driver was in the lead!

AJ the IV. A younger driver with a famous last name, he'd been in the league for five years and had never finished better than eighth. And, now, he was first! Unfortunately for him, Tony Kanaan was in second, with a lapped car between him and AJ. And Tony's car had been the cream of the field, leading 120 of the 180 laps thus far. There was no way AJ could hold off Tony.

But, still, the crowd was going wild.

Field gave a few claps and squeaks of his own.

I don't think he can do it.

Field just bit his lip at that. Maybe not. But, still, he hoped so. It would be a great thing to witness. It would be the biggest upset in the past decade, for sure!

And, soon enough, it was green-green-green, and the cars went back to racing. A late-rash dash to the checkers. But Tony's car was a full mile per hour faster than everyone else's, and he wasn't going to wait. The pass was completed before they came back around.

Field blew out a breath. Maybe the upset of the decade wouldn't happen today. But, still, that didn't make it any less of a race. So, he clapped and bobbed on the tips of his bare foot-paws (as race crowds always stood up on restarts, as well as first laps and last laps; when they sat down, it was a 'herd instinct,' or more like how migrating birds all knew when to turn at the same time; in the same fashion, the crowd always sat down at the same time).

And the cars came round again, glistening under the lights, now, pretty, purring, rubber on asphalt, taking high lines and low lines, pushing through the air like grounded rockets. It was a sight (and sound!) to see (and hear!), to be sure.

Zoom-zoom-zoom!

Florence, Kentucky, a few hours later, at the Red Roof Inn, which was sandwiched between a Target and a Cracker Barrel. Their room (which was nothing luxurious; a simple one-bedroom space, with a bathroom, television, microwave, and miniature fridge) was dimmed and cooled, with the air conditioning set to medium-high. And the curtains, made of their heavy fabric, were drawn to a secure close.

"Um ... uh," were the errant, erratic breaths, his muzzle lazily slipping off a hardened, saliva-glistening nipple. Her nipple. Her bare, furry breasts, so soft and pliable, so perfect for grabbing and petting and holding. And even more perfect for sucking on. Such beautiful evidence of femininity, breasts. And his soft, sniffy nose slid easily through her breast-fur, nostrils flaring. Sniffy-sniff. Sniff. Her scent. Her clean, uncovered scent.

The first thing they had done upon checking into their second-story room (number 216) was, of course, shower. They'd been sweaty and smelling like a race track. So, they'd showered together, hugging, holding, swaying under the warm, jetting water. Whispering sweet, little things into each other's ears. And, upon stepping out and drying, they'd waltzed straight to the bed, where they'd wound up horizontal. Where she'd wound up on her back. And where he'd wound up belly-to-belly on top of her. Where they'd begun to indulge in each other.

"I love you," Field breathed, his soft, wispy voice sounding like it could float away. "Adelaide ... "

" ... Field," was her warm, melting response. "Darling ... "

"I love you," he panted again, passionately, his breath trembling as he nuzzled her with his mousey nose.

"I love you, too," she assured, her paws on his upper back. She felt his shoulder blades through his fur. "Love you," she whispered, "too ... mm. Mm." The bat arched just a tiny bit, the sheets rustling. It was strange, in a way, to be making love so far from home, in a place you didn't know. In a room that wasn't really yours. The colors, textures, and smells of this place weren't anything like the ones back in their farmhouse in Big Springs. It was almost a foreign feeling.

But it didn't distract them overly much. It didn't stop the mouse's keen nose from honing in on his wife's natural scent, which was everything comforting and pleasing to him. Everything familiar and right. Unabashedly, he breathed her in, nosing, nosing, caressing her sides with his slightly-rougher (from all the rural work he did) paws. Not just nosing. But mouthing, sucking, panting on her body, giving off such fervent heat. Oh, he was full of wriggle and scurry, for sure! And he was using it all on her.

" ... come 'ere," the bat whispered. "Come 'ere ... "

Blowing out a hot breath, the mouse wriggled a bit, his naked, trim form (oh, an active, rural physique) sliding atop of hers. Over her soft, supple body. "Mm. Hmm," he went, all squeakily, as he mouthed the side of her neck. With eyes closed and muzzle drooling a bit, he sucked on her pink neck-fur. "Mm," he went, finally zoning in on her lips. Their heads aligned. Resulting in a sweet, loosened kiss, which was held for many seconds.

His muzzle pressing to hers, tilting, lips wet and pressing, pressing. The taste of her. The heat of her. He only wanted more.

And her dextrous bat-tongue, made for catching insects, slipped slightly into his maw, turning this from 'lips only' to 'lips and tongues.'

"Mm. Mm ... "

Her paws roved over his back, up and down, up and down. Down, down, where she grabbed his pert, honey-tan rump-cheeks. And squeezed them. He had such a cute rump. She squeezed it.

He squeaked, foot-paws arching. Were he standing, he would've raised up to his tip-toes. He always did that when his rump was gripped. It never failed. But, lying down, he could only stretch his toes out. All the while, still not pulling away from her muzzle. Nose flaring, sniffing wildly, he pressed, sucked, and kissed. Oh, he kissed her full-on, head-on. There was no kiss like an unchecked, late-night lip-kiss!

But, eventually, they had to break it.

To breathe.

Breathe.

Adelaide's head lolled dizzily to the side, lips in a semblance of a smile. This was good. This was nice. Her breasts, with each breath, visibly rose and fell.

The mouse gave squeaky pants. Pant, pant, pant. He gently breathed onto her cheek, his whiskers twitching, twitching, lightly brushing her muzzle as they did so. And they just laid like that for a few minutes. Just together, just catching their breaths. No words were needed right now. Their actions said it all. And their thoughts, as well. And Adelaide could hear everything he was thinking. And comprehend every image that fluttered into his head.

She knew.

And he knew.

Sometimes, love required poetry, required long bouts of banter.

Sometimes, all it required was a kiss.

Sometimes, all they needed was this.

Displays of affection, preludes to breeding.

And, Field, regaining his bearings, resumed his 'work.' And started doing more things to her body.

Swallowing, eyes half-open, she gave him free reign.

With those rodent buckteeth of his, he sensuously began to nibble on her neck, then her bare shoulders. Before sliding down, down, back to her nipple, where he lazily mouthed her breasts again, as if unable to get enough."Hmm ... mm," he went, softly, his silky-pink, ropy tail snaking in the air behind him (and above them both) like a wayward fishing line.

Adelaide, staring at the ceiling through half-open eyes, had to remind herself to keep a telepathic 'feeler' around her husband's volume. They were in a hotel, after all, just before midnight. And the mouse was a definite 'squeaker.' Tender whines and helpless pleasure-cries. Not that she was very quiet, herself. She could be just as expressive. But, with her telepathic skills, she had more self-discipline than he did.

The mouse's muzzle began to move, move, began to journey.

The bat drew a breath, tingling, heart skipping a beat.

Outside, a rumble. A heated, descending roar of an engine. A jet plane coming in for a landing, and passing overhead. The sound penetrated the walls. And then faded, faded, as the plane sank lower, closer to whatever runway it was going to land on.

Field's ears swivelled helplessly at this. Meanwhile, his muzzle exhaling on her soft, soft belly, around her fur-hidden belly-button. Hot, simmering exhales, with light, squeaky inhales.

The bat tingled. She was well-trained my his muzzle. All he had to do was slide his lips across her belly like that, in a downward direction. And she knew. Instantly. She knew what was next. Her mind told her body, and her body reacted with growing excitement. With anticipation. And she rarely remembered the simple act of spreading and raising her legs. But she did it every time, without instruction. It was as if the sudden, overwhelming anticipation short-circuited her mind. Short, short ...

... breaths. Short breaths from him, as he ...

... tensed. She drew air, head rolling to the other side, cheek on the white, soft pillow. "Oh, g-gosh ... yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes." A light, sighing grunt, legs spread. "Mm ... " Oh, one could say she was trained by his muzzle.

If it weren't for the fact that the mouse was helplessly trained by her pussy.

We'll call it a draw, Adelaide thought to herself, her toes curling. She tensed, giving a throaty chitter. Trying to keep her voice down. Trying to keep quiet. But, really, it was incredibly hard.

Field's ears began to gorge with blood. He stopped for a moment. Just a moment. And looked up at her.

The bat nodded lightly and said, "Keep going ... don't stop." It was a tender plea. "And don't worry about your squeaks ... let 'em come," she breathed, feeling hotter. Hot, hotter, hottest.

The mouse, eyes locking with hers, gave a slight nod, a squeaky affirmation, before his muzzle gently sank back into her muff. Eye contact broken and ears lowered.

"Mm." Her eyes squeezed shut, and she rode the wave of rising pleasure. Oh, he was eager. What he lacked in size and maneuverability, he made up for with patience and gentility. As he nibbled, licked, sucked, pressed. As he made extra-sure to stimulate her clitoris. "Oh ... oh, oh," the bat whined, legs clamping against his head. Her paws grabbed out, unable to reach his ears. Instead, she clutched at the bed-sheets. "Oh," she managed, descending into chitters and echo-bursts. Her vagina in sweet, succulent tremors, dripping nectar, pulsing with a pleasure that hit her lower body like a tsunami. Heavy breathing on her part. "Ah ... ah," she gaped, belly arching in orgasm.

Field's paw went there, to her belly, and gently held her down.

"Ah," she breathed.

And the mouse, still holding to her, paws still on her body drunk, slobbered almost tipsily (drunk on her sex as he was) on her labia, lightly licking at the juices that trickled from her femininity.

Adelaide swallowed, relaxing. Oh, relaxing. But, no, it wasn't over yet. Thank goodness, it wasn't over yet. "Come on, darling ... up," she panted, "you go. Come on ... "

His ears, fully gorged, throbbed hotly at the sound of her voice. As he slid up her body, panting, squeaking, hips eventually grinding into hers, meeting hers. His own hips raising, and then sinking. His modest, circumcised mouse-hood was as erect as it was going to get. And in the easy, mellowed state they were both in, it didn't take him long to work himself in. To penetrate. His penis gently dipped into her body, pulling back a bit (to the tip). And then dipping back in. Making a wet, little squelching sound as it did so. The sound of their union, his flesh and her muscle. Hot, raw, slick. The best kind of friction.

Adelaide sighed at the fullness. And at the buzz that was overtaking her. The tingling in her teeth, her fangs. The mating milk welling. The urge to bite building, building. Bite, bite, bite. Her head swam.

Field, huffing squeakily, kept his motions extremely smooth, extremely gentle. He was sliding in and out of her with a buttery ease, a pleasure so nice he could only moan each time he reached a hilt. "G-gosh ... oh, oh ... " A shaky inhale. Her vagina was bliss. Pure bliss. "Mm. Oh, oh ... ohnn," he managed, hugging her from above, his foot-paws gently, purposely brushing against hers. The sheets and covers on this for-one-night-only bed were strewn, trailing off the mattress. The pillows were still in place, though. And the bed-side clock, on the little stand, looked at them with neon-green numbers.

The bat, meanwhile, feverishly licked a spot on his neck, her saliva painting his honey-tan fur with a numbing agent, which reached the skin below his pelt, priming him for the bite. Which came soon, came quickly, came painlessly. It came. Her sharp, pearly-white fangs sank into his neck (where they never left a mark), immediately injecting the white 'mating milk' into the mouse's blood. It only took a few seconds for it to fill his veins, to pass through his heart, to run the full circuit. To telepathically link them. An emotional, physical, spiritual union. A union of too many adjectives to list.

So close. Closer than close.

They were, in essence, one fur.

Oh, intimacy.

Oh, love.

Her winged arms wrapped securely, needily around his bare, sweat-matted back, in a full-body hug. Her fangs embedded in his neck, staying there. And the mouse moving his hips with grinding, so-sensitive pleasure, humping her softly, softly. Feeling it from her perspective as well as his own. It didn't make logical sense. But it didn't have to. He knew what he felt. And he knew how her memories and feelings and thoughts were flooding into his head, mixing with his own. He was knowing her fully, now. Bare, raw, intensely close. Nothing felt so good as this. Nothing was as perfect as this. His whole body was warm with happy feelings. Happiness bestowed by her.

It was coming so naturally.

It was coming from their love.

And, right now, Field had no clue what peaches were. Not a clue.

SUNDAY

Cincinnati, Ohio

" ... I don't know the names," Field whispered, squinting a bit, "of any of these buildings. It's like they're ... " He trailed, tilting his head. " ... just giants. They don't have faces. They need names," he insisted, "to have faces." Some of the buildings had pyramidal tops, with columns. Most were beige and white. The biggest one (which wasn't bigger than Indiana's tallest building, Field had to note) had blue glass and neat curves. It would probably look very pretty, all of this, in the evening. Or at night. Especially from a nice vantage point from across the river.

"Buildings need faces?" Adelaide, muzzle raised to the heavens, breathed a few lazy breaths, her forehead-fur damp with sweat. More than her forehead was sweat-matted, of course. She felt like she was roasting. And, head leaning down, she gave a few pants.

"Names," Field emphasized, sweat droplets glistening as they dripped off his pink, sniffy nose. "And faces," he relented. "Both." A snap. Taking a picture with his camera. And then another. Different color schemes, different angles. All with an artist's eye.

"I thought buildings had facades. Facades," Adelaide said, "are faces."

"Only if the buildings are French." A pause. "And the French haven't made a decent building since 1890."

"An expert on modern European architecture, are you?" She nudged him.

"No. I just ... I'm just saying," he said, ceasing the picture-taking.

"What are you saying? Buildings? Faces? You eat expired cheese?"

"Stop it," Field said, in his shy, wispy way. "Adelaide ... "

" ... just teasing you. Anyway, you started it."

"I was trying to be poetic, and ... now we're just bein' silly. Or, rather, you are," he accused, harmlessly.

"Maybe that's my plan. To silly you up 'til you get all flustered and squeaky and I have to calm you down," she admitted, winking mischievously.

The mouse bit back a smile. Giving a sigh, instead. His whiskers twitched a bit, a bit. A bit more. The sky was so blue, with nary a cloud. Just like yesterday. And it was so, so hot. Again, just like yesterday. It had been a beautiful weekend. But too hot and too dry, if one were being honest (the drought continuing; back home, hay yields were the lowest in decades, and farmers were hurting). But Field didn't like to complain (except about peaches). There was nothing he could do about the weather. And, in some ways, it relieved him to see that it was the same down here as it was back home. A drought was more poignant, somehow, when everyone was going thirsty together.

Adelaide, leaning forward a bit, peered over the railing. They were four, five stories up, on the outer (north) exterior of Great American Ball Park. The Reds game started at 1:15, and it was only 12:45. They'd arrived in the city at 11. So, they'd browsed some gift shops (Field had gotten a 'Reds' baseball), walked around. Talking all the while. And they'd wound up here, in front of the skyline, facing away from the Ohio River (with its many bridges and barges and boats).

"What are you doing?" Field suddenly asked, with rising concern. His tail snaked like a live wire. He pocketed his camera in his jean shorts.

"Getting a feel for the air. The breeze," Adelaide went, eyes closed. She took a slow, deep breath through her nose. Her body leaning against the railing, now, with winged arms reaching out. At their full 'wingspan.' "I'm a flier, Field. I fly," she reminded.

"I know you do. I just ... " His whiskers twitched. He looked to those winged arms. The arms that, so often, were like blankets to him. That wrapped around his body. They enveloped. They were warm, velvety, like membranes.

" ... you're afraid of heights."

"A little."

"Then don't look down."

"I'm not," he insisted, quietly. "I'm looking out, to the horizon. I'm not looking ... "

" ... down. I'm so aware of the pull of gravity holding me down. And I know," she whispered, turning her head to meet her husband's gaze, "that I can break it. That's, like ... it's a bold thrill, you know?"

"I know," he whispered. "I've felt it."

"I know. I just ...

"I've lived your memories, felt things as if your body was mine. I ... I know what flying does for you. I know how much it means." His wife flew. But only at night. Her bones, like a bird's, were light. Though it was true that Adelaide weighed five or six pounds more than she had before being pregnant with Akira. And that she sometimes struggled for breath when she landed. Having a baby left its mark on a femme's body. But Field, even if he noticed any changes, didn't acknowledge them. He adored her.

And, besides, Adelaide was still in healthy, attractive shape. She didn't have the 'scurry' in her that Field had, but she would often play basketball with him. And they would do lots of walking. They both kept fit. And living a rural life helped in that, admittedly. But, when it came to her flying, Field would lie on the grass, staring upward, as she flew. And would listen for the almost silent sound of her wings. Would listen for her echo-bursts and chitters.

Oh, she could still fly. She could get up there, very high, above things. Above it all. She could feel the wind moving through her fur. She could feel the space, the open infinity. And she was in love with it. Which left her torn about Akira someday flying. Of course, she reveled in the thought of teaching her daughter to fly. The moments shared. Mother and daughter. But flying was a rite of passage. And what if Akira was too stubborn to do as told? There was a reason bats flew only at night. They were mammals that could do things other mammals couldn't. Which incited jealousy and suspicion. When you were a bat, you learned to use your gifts (flight and telepathy) with restraint. In privacy, you used them abundantly. But you rarely showcased them in public.

"Adelaide," Field said, tenderly, his paw sliding over the railing to rest atop of hers. His fingers halfway meshing with her fingers. He didn't say anything else. Just her name. For the moment, just her name. "Adelaide ... "

The pink-furred bat leaned her head to the side.

And the mouse sidled right up against her, pressing his nose to her neck.

"Someone will see," the bat whispered, eyes closed.

"I don't care," he whispered back.

"Your ears will go beet-red."

"I'm just nuzzling my wife. Nothing wrong with that. And nothing wrong," he added, "with your batty-ness. I love," he breathed, "batty-ness. I don't think I tell you that enough. You put up with my mousey-ness, my 'mousey motions.' All of it. And you tell me," he breathed, "all the time ... how cute it all is. How cute I am. How you love that I'm a mouse. And I need ... "

"Field, you really don't have ... "

" ... to tell you more: that I love that you're bat. That I love your fangs. Your toothy-ness. Your wings. Your heady sense of flight and the confidence it gives you. The pink of your fur, like a sunset. Your batty-ness is beautiful to me. And it ... "

" ... drives you batty?" she finished, reading his mind. And beating him to it. A raised brow, and a genuine grin.

"You do," he insisted. "You do ... "

" ... drive you batty."

"In a good way."

"You don't need to remind me. I sense it, I feel it, I live it," she said, "whenever I sink my fangs into your neck."

"But I should still tell you more. Just because. Just ... to have my words be like honey to you." A little kiss to her cheek, and he pulled away a bit. And swallowing, he fiddled with his camera again. Taking it out of his pocket. And then putting it right back in.

She looked to him, glowingly. And told them. "They are. Your words? They are honey to me. Don't think they're not ... "

" ... but they should be ... "

" ... more? Field, you're not perfect. Nor am I. We do our best. You love me to the best of your ability, and that's all I ask. I'm not asking you to be a character out of a romance novel."

A tiny, self-deprecating smile. "Good thing, too. I'm not exactly your typical male."

"So, you're on the effeminate side. Male mouses are."

His whiskers twitched. "I get mistaken for a femme on the phone. At work, when I answer the phone ... a lot of times."

"And?"

"It just ... " His whiskers twitched, and he looked to the skyline. " ... I don't know. Hurts my feelings. It's ... " A twitching pause. " ... not just my voice. The way I move. The way I ... and cause of my past, and ... "

" ... hey," she breathed, stopping him. "You know what?"

"What?" he breathed.

"Being a male doesn't mean you talk tough and deep and walk with a muscular swagger. It doesn't mean," she said, "that. And you know it. You have strength in you. It comes from your faith, and you'd protect me with you life. If a predator threatened me ... "

" ... I'd nibble him to death."

"You know what I mean. You'd defend me. You'd put your body between me and whatever claws are teeth were there." A pause. "You have strength."

"But ... "

" ... what? You wanna know that you're male enough for me? Don't you already know that?"

"I do. I ... I was just ... "

" ... you're a loving, supportive husband and a father. You gave me a child. You give me your body every day. And you know what? That's real masculinity."

The mouse bit his lip, smiling shyly, eyes darting. "I'm sorry. I, uh ... that I brought it up. It was just ... " He trailed, piping back up with, "I just wanna be the best for you. I wanna be ... " A breath. " ... you know?"

"I do. And it makes me melt." She eyed him. "We both got our insecurities. We both know each other's, and ... but we fill in each other's gaps. You make me, a bat, feel like a normal mammal. When other rodents would've looked at me funny. Would've been scared of my 'blood-sucking fangs' and 'mind-control powers'." A warm smile. "You gave me Akira," she repeated. "And you ... you give me," she managed, "so much. More than I can put into words. And when I'm in here," she said, putting her fingers on his forehead. " ... you feel what I feel for you. You fill my gaps. And I only hope that I fill yours as well as you fill mine. Whether that means making you feel fully masculine or easing your 'mousey anxiety' ... whatever happens, we're part of each other. Symbiotic," she said.

"Symbiotic," the mouse repeated, at such a fragile whisper.

Adelaide, taking a deep breath, planted a light kiss on Field's lips. And breathed, "Know that I love you, darling ... always. And if that sounds cheesy, I don't care."

" ... I love you, too," was his immediate, emotional response. "And it doesn't," he breathed, "sound cheesy. It sounds just ... " A sigh. " ... right."

And, stretching her wings and rising to the tips of her foot-paws, the bat looked back to the sky, and then to the horizon. They were quiet for a moment, reveling in being alive. And then she resumed their 'banter,' saying, "Even if the buildings don't have faces, they're not that bad."

"It's a good skyline," Field agreed. "I mean, the whole ... hilly landscape, the river. It's impressive. I just ... "

" ... feel like a stranger here?"

"Well, anywhere," Field insisted, "that's not Central Indiana. It's, like, I feel like I'm foreign. That I just ... don't understand what makes a place a place," he emphasized. "Unless it's my home." A squint. "I can't imagine us living anywhere but where we do." He turned to look at her. "Is that bad?"

"Why would it be?"

"Maybe it's, uh ... or maybe I'm," the mouse corrected, "too rustic for my own good."

"I don't think so. I like rural males. They have character. They're natural." A wink.

His ears blushed a bit.

"We're on a little holiday here, Field. Enjoy it. Don't worry about the why's, what's, when's ... just look out there, just breathe. Just use your senses. Just stay by my side."

"I planned on it," he confided, gently.

A toothy grin. Replying, "We better get to our seats. The game's gonna start soon ... "

Their seats were twenty rows from the field, in right field. Closer to home plate than not, and situated in the bright, burning sun.

Field's ears swivelled weakly, weakly, listening to the murmur of the sweat-matted crowd. Suffocating, damp pelts, open muzzles (panting for breath). But, still, furs were here. The park was only at half-capacity (maybe not entirely due to the heat; the Reds weren't exactly lighting the sports world on fire right now). One couldn't hole inside one's house just because it was hot. When you had fur, you dealt with the heat. Just as you dealt with ticks, fleas, shedding, and all the other nuisances that came with having a soft, attractive pelt.

" ... you need more sun lotion on your ears?"

A weak head-shake. A swallow. And a pant. "No," the mouse insisted.

"You do."

"Adelaide ... "

" ... not lettin' you burn those ears." She knew that ear-burns were very painful for mouses. And, being erogenous, when a mouse's ears were in pain? That pain filtered through the rest of his body. It was hard for a mouse to get aroused when his ears were hurting. It was the equivalent of how a fur's breeding drive went dormant during any illness.

"I'm, uh ... "

" ... too hot."

"What about you. I'm ... you're in the sun, too," he panted.

"Yeah, but mouses are more delicate."

"Well ... "

" ... Field, don't argue. Come on. There. The last out of the inning. Let's take a break," she said, getting him out of his seat and leading him up the steps. They entered the covered concession area. The mouse, swallowing, looked like he was going to wilt. And the bat guided him to a nearby wall and leaned him there. While she took a little bottle of sun lotion out of her purse.

Field closed his eyes. "It is so," he went, "hot. It is so ... "

" ... hot. I know." She turned her head, squinting at the scoreboard, which listed the temperature and time in one corner. "One hundred degrees."

"Oh, my gosh," Field sighed. "One hundred degrees?"

"What it says." She squirted some white sun lotion onto her palm.

"I thought it was ... like, ninety-six or something."

"Does it matter?"

"Never been in triple-degree temperatures. Never in my life," he insisted.

"First time for everything," the bat responded, smiling, and bringing her paw to the mouse's ears. "Hold still."

"Adelaide ... "

" ... look, just hold still." She carefully massaged the sun lotion into the back of his big, dishy ears. Into the pink, sensitive flesh. Softly, softly. "Gotta do your tail, too," she reminded. "Can't forget that tail."

"It feels ... Adelaide," he breathed, as she moved to massage sun lotion onto the length of his tail. "It ... it, uh ... "

" ... don't worry. Your erection doesn't show through your shorts," she confided, grinning.

His ears got rosy-pink, extra blood flowing in. The short, clear hairs along the length of his tail stood on end.

" ... there. There we go," the bat said. "Done." And she put the sun lotion bottle back in her purse, taking a step back. "You're safe for the rest of the day. The sun might sweat you silly, but he won't burn you."

"I guess that's, uh ... good," Field said, calming down. The blood leaving his ears. The hairs on his tail relaxing. "You like doing that, don't you?"

"Do I?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"You do."

"Want a fruit smoothie?" she asked, changing the subject. "They got a stand. Strawberry-banana."

"As long as it's not peaches."

"I thought I made you forget about peaches. Last night," she said.

"You did. It just ... kinda came back."

"Saying I'm gonna have to try again?"

"Will you?"

A giggle-chitter. Sending him a telepathic image.

The mouse blushed, fiercely. "Adelaide," he whispered, looking around.

"What? You'd like it, wouldn't you?"

"Well ... "

She sent him another image. "Yeah?"

"Uh ... "

" ... fruit smoothie?" she supplied, giggle-chittering some more. She loved flustering him. He was so cute when he was flustered.

" ... yeah. Yeah," he managed, clearing his throat. Calming down (yet again). "But I think the next inning's started."

"We won't miss much," she assured. Neither she nor Field was a huge baseball fan. They loved auto racing first. Then basketball and football (in varying intensities, depending on what time of year it was). But, still, they didn't dislike baseball. And they'd wanted to attend a game here. Cause it was different. Cause it was fun. Cause it was nice. They were having a good time.

"I smell all ... fur-matted and stuff," the mouse said, as he padded after his wife, as they maneuvered through the crowd. They passed through a 'mister' or two, which misted water into the air. Many furs were lounging beneath those areas.

"So do I. No one's gonna notice. Everyone's a mess to everyone else's noses."

"I think we should take a long shower tonight. Extra long."

"Someone's got breeding on his mind, doesn't he? Mm?"

"Well, you did stuff to my ears, and ... you know, got me started," the mouse said, as they approached the smoothie stand. "And it's so hot out."

"You're telling me," Adelaide breathed, showing her fangs to her husband. And then placing their smoothie orders.

It was a few hours later, and they were in the car. Heading home. They were on the interstate, and they weren't even halfway to Big Springs. But they were in Indiana, at least.

Adelaide was keeping the truck at a steady speed. But her eyes kept darting to the dash read-outs, as well as the signs on the side of the road. "Field, we're gonna need gas. Might as well eat supper somewhere, too. We got enough money ... next exit, I think. Or the one after. Depends on where you wanna eat."

No response.

"Field ... " She briefly looked over to the passenger seat.

The mouse's eyes were drooping, drooping, his head lowering, lowering. And then, suddenly, a blink! A twitch! Jerking, he raised his head, eyes going wide. Until, a few seconds later, they drooped again, again. And he sank in his seat. Only to twitch to alertness. He was trying to stay awake. Trying. But wasn't doing a very good job at it. He was tired. From the heat, from sweating all day, from the traveling.

" ... the cuteness," Adelaide breathed, chittering. "The cuteness!"

"Mm?" Several blinks on his part, eyes wide. And then going half-open. And then closing, opening. "Mm?"

"Where do you want to eat? We got, like, five choices. You don't want fast food, I know, so that limits it to two ... Field?"

"Mm? What?" He twitched, looking all around. "What?"

"You're falling asleep," Adelaide said, paws securely on the wheel.

"No ... "

" ... yes."

"No." An emphatic shake of the head. He smoothed his honey-tan fur with his paws. "I wasn't."

"Alright," Adelaide said, indulging him. But grinning to herself. She felt like laughing. But she held it back. Taking a deep breath, she asked, "Where to? What next?"

The mouse, sighing deeply, looked to his wife. Life, as it had always been, so full of possibility. So full of hope. Where to? What next? His answer was a dreamy, "Anywhere. Everything. Just take me with you."

Adelaide smiled widely, flipping on the turn signal. And taking the next exit. Whispering, "You got it, darling. You got it ... "