Aren’t brave people happy?
Marching off to battle with a smile on their face?
Fighting aliens with a grin?
I’m not brave.
I’m lonely.
And scared out of my mind.
Still, so far this side of the road is much better than the park.
“You're safe here, Mark. Whatever you tell me is nobody else's business.”
I want to believe her. Really.
I hesitate at first, and then cave.
Even then, I keep my answers short in case I’ve been wrong to trust her.
In case this is all a ruse until the authorities arrive.
???
“You can sleep in here,” she tells me, opening the door to room seventeen.
“But keep it tidy, and be considerate of motel guests. I mean it.”
I promise her that I will. And I mean it, too.
The bed is glorious, at least three times the size of my bed at home.
Much softer too.
Crisp white sheets with no rips or stains.
A hot shower all to myself.
No beer bottles or broken doors.
No mould or clutter.
Nobody yelling or smashing things.
It feels like heaven.
“Get some rest for a couple of days. I'm sure you need it. But I meant what I said, I really could use an extra pair of hands in the kitchen. You can wash dishes until those cuts heal. Then I might let you serve tables. You'll get three hot meals a day and a small allowance each week if you stay out of trouble. Sound good?”
Unbelievably good.
So good that I actually do hug her this time.
And with a polite pat on my back, she lets me.
Beth even leaves a small cupcake on the bench for me the day I turn sixteen.
“Eat it before the others see. Don't want them thinking I'm a softie,” she grins.
