Part of me wants to say something sympathetic. But come on — not being able to afford a private car to take you home for the weekend is not exactly a humanitarian crisis. And honestly? I'm quietly impressed by her father. Most parents with that kind of money would have sent a helicopter by now. The fact that he's making her sit in it tells me at least one person in her family has some sense.
"And my friends," she continues, "my friends aren't exactly lining up to be associated with me right now. Apparently I'm bad for the brand." She tries to smile when she says it and the smile doesn't work. "So. Duster it is."
"I'm sorry about your friends," I say. "But at least you'll get a good rest. You must be tired after your first week. And I've spoken to Ruthie from the diner and to the guys at The Watering Hole. I told them to leave you alone so if anyone gives you trouble, call me. I'll deal with them."
Sloane gives me a small smile. "Thank you. That's really kind."
"I know you don't believe me but this really is a friendly town. You just have to earn their trust." I shrug. "Ruthie felt bad about sending you out with a takeout bag the other night. She saidyou can come back anytime and she'll make sure no one bothers you."
Sloane almost laughs. Not quite, but close. The corner of her mouth lifts and stays up for longer than it has all week.
"And for what it's worth," I add, "your friends sound like idiots."
She does laugh at that. "They're not all bad. Just —"
"Fair-weather."
"That's one way to put it."
"It's the only way to put it. When things are good, everyone's your friend. When things are bad, you find out who actually is." I pick up a peg that's fallen in the grass. "You're better off knowing now than finding out later."
She nods, looking out across the yard, at Hank under his tree, at Beyoncé standing on top of three stacked car tires.
"If you're bored, the library in Cawley is open Saturdays," I say. "If you take the morning bus you'd have a few hours before the afternoon one back. It's small but it's air-conditioned and quiet and nobody in there is going to take a picture of you."
"Okay, that sounds like a plan." Sloane hoists the bag onto her shoulder. "What about you? What are you doing this weekend?"
I chuckle and gesture around me.
Sloane closes her eyes. "Right. Stupid question. You don't get weekends."
"No. But I do have a couple of extra volunteers come on Saturdays and Sundays so I can take it a bit easier. I still do the morning feed but I don't have to be out here all day." We walk around the side of the house toward the gate. "It's the closest thing to a day off I get. I might even sit down at some point."
"Wild."
"I know. Try to contain your envy."
Sloane lingers by the gate. "Well," she says, shifting the bag on her shoulder. "I guess I'll see you on Monday."
"Yeah." I open the gate for her. "Sloane."
She turns.
"You did good this week. You showed up every day and you didn't quit." I smile. "I know you didn't have a choice but still… well done."
17
SLOANE
I'm standing in front of the bathroom mirror, hair wet, trying to decide between Ruthie's diner and crackers and cheese when the phone on my bedside table rings.
I pick it up. "Hello?"
"Someone here to see you," Patty, the receptionist, says, in her usual tone of maximum indifference.
"Who?"
"Didn't ask."
