Page 21 of Day Break

“In there.” He waved his hand towards a hallway. “Under the sink in the bathroom.”

Taking one last look at the glass doors, I took a deep breath and turned towards the hallway.

The kitchen and living space were connected with a short half wall that sat between them. It was topped with a warm wood that was filled with rows and rows of framed photos.

I moved through the beautiful kitchen with its marble countertops and soft cream-colored cabinets. The middle island was the only surface different than the rest of the space. Its warm wood color matched that of the kitchen table and floors perfectly, as if they’d all been made from the same tree.

Passing by the large stainless-steel refrigerator, I stepped into a wide hallway. To the left was a huge walk-in pantry, stocked with so much food that I felt almost faint at the thought of eating it.

To the left was the powder room. I stepped on the soft gray and white rug that covered the hardwood floor. The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, and there was a large, framed painting of bright purple flowers hanging over the toilet.

I was about to look under the sink for the first aid kit when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and gasped.

No wonder the old man, George, had been staring at me. I had been fooling myself into believing that I continued to look almost normal. I had known my hair was a rat’s nest. But the rest of me…

The only good thing about living outdoors was that my normally translucent skin had a soft glow to it, thanks to those sunny days. I was by no means tan, but at least I wasn’t as pale as I’d been the last time that I’d seen myself in a mirror.

I had dirt and grass stains everywhere. My eyes looked hollow and sunken into my face. Dark rings were obvious through my light skin.

I turned on the sink and quickly washed my hands. I didn’t want to get the man sick because of the dirt that was caked under my nails. I was shocked at how much dirt washed off and instantly wanted a shower to clean off the rest of the grime.

I knew he was waiting for me, and I was worried about the amount of blood he’d lost already. Leaving my reflection, I gathered up the first aid kit and returned to kneel beside him.

He sat perfectly still as I cleaned up the cut, watching my movements as if he was still trying to figure me out.

Now that I’d seen myself in the mirror, I knew it was obvious to anyone what I was. I was a homeless woman that was half starved, dehydrated, and desperate.

“There,” I said after putting a small bandage over the cut. I’d finally gotten the bleeding to stop. “Head wounds always bleed a lot,” I assured him when I gathered up the gauze and towels that I’d used to clean the blood up.

“Thank you,” he said. “You can toss all that in the trash.” He motioned towards the pantry.

I dumped the soiled items in a large metal trashcan. My eyes landed on a box of granola bars and for a split second, I thought of grabbing a few and stuffing them in my pockets. After all, he wouldn’t notice if one or two of them disappeared. Right?

Then I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was better than that. I didn’t break the law.

I took a giant step back and left the temptation.

“I like my sandwich with extra mayo on it,” George said from the table.

I walked over to the island and stopped briefly to wash my hands again. There was a loaf of bread, the really good and expensive kind that had the little seeds on the top with the extra crispy crust, and the slices were so thick you couldn’t see through them. There was also a small container of real turkey and some really good yellow cheese, American or cheddar. I lifted a slice up and smelled it. It was cheddar. I held in a groan when my stomach growled.

There was a jar of expensive mayonnaise and a jar of chilled pickles. It all sat on the island along with a cream-colored square plate, a cutting board, and a knife.

I made George his sandwich, moving like a chef would, slowly, methodically, until it was a piece of art in front of me. When I was done, I cut it diagonally and placed a pickle slice next to it.

“There are chips.” George waved towards the pantry. “I like a handful of the onion and chive flavor.” He sighed. “I’ll have some cranberry juice too. It’s in the fridge. Glasses are to the left.” He waved towards a cupboard.

After gathering everything he wanted, I set his meal in front of him and waited.

He looked at the sandwich and smiled. “Perfect. You even cut it right.” He looked up at me. “Well, make yourself one. There’s no reason I should eat alone.”

I moved quickly, afraid that he’d change his mind.

I mimicked his meal exactly, only this time I rushed. When I set my plate and glass down across from his on the table, I looked down at Byron. “What about Byron? Does he get lunch?”

George chuckled. “He’s had his breakfast and snack.” He leaned ever so slightly towards me. “He enjoys a nice green apple every morning after his meal. It keeps his teeth clean and breath smelling better than most of those dog treats I buy him.” He winked. “He takes it off somewhere to enjoy.” George’s gaze turned towards the glass doors, and I watched sadness flood his eyes. Then he blinked and returned to look at me. “Please.” He motioned to the food. “Enjoy.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Should I tell him that Byron had been bringing me the apples each morning? I looked down at the dog, who was looking up at George as if his world centered around him.