He nodded, like he'd expected that answer.
"Good. You can start tomorrow. Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow, we'll talk about hours and pay and what you'll be doing."
"What about the basement?"
"What about it?"
"You said I could use it. For whatever I need."
He was quiet for a moment.
"The basement is yours. I don't ask questions about what happens down there. But I need you to understand something."
"What?"
"If you bring trouble to my door—if the police come looking for you, if someone comes looking for you—I can't protect you. I won't lie for you. I won't put my bar at risk."
"I understand."
"Do you?"
"I understand that you're giving me a chance. That's more than anyone else has given me. I won't make you regret it."
He looked at me for a long time. His eyes were grey, or blue, or something in between, and they didn't look away.
"Okay, Bunny. Welcome to The Lost Hours."
He left me alone after that.
I ate the sandwich. Turkey and cheese on rye, with mustard and lettuce and tomato. It was the first real meal I'd had in days, and I ate every bite.
The blanket was still around my shoulders.
The couch was still warm.
The bar was still quiet, and Matt was still out front, and the world was still turning, and I was still alive.
I didn't know why.
I didn't know how.
But I was still alive.
And for now, that was enough.
I lay back against the pillows and closed my eyes. The darkness behind my lids was softer now. Less threatening. Less like a void and more like a room with the lights turned down.
"Daddy."
The whisper was softer this time. Almost peaceful.
"Daddy, I found a place. I found someone who doesn't ask questions. I found a job."
"I'm not giving up."
"I'm still hunting for you."
"I'm still yours."
