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The question came in Heberto’s voice, and Roman could almost see his disdainful face. A tumbler of whiskey in one hand. His accent thickened at the end of a long day spent wheeling and dealing.
Hope is just a feeling, Roman.
Feelings don’t matter. Who cares about your feelings? Only you.
You forget about that shit and use your head.
Use his head. Ignore his feelings. Tamp down any hope that tried to rise up.
It was the only way he knew. The only compass he could trust.
Roman untied his filthy, sweat-stained shirt from around his foot and shook it out. He put it back on. Buttoned it up. Tucked it into his pants.
He limped toward the bathroom, ignoring the pain in his heel.
Lifting it into the sink, he cleaned it as best he could with just water. From the hand-sanitizer dispenser on the wall, he filled his palm with cool, sterile gel and spread it over his wounds.
It hurt, but that didn’t matter.
He wrapped his foot in toilet paper, wet his face and hair and neck, and looked at himself in the mirror until his hands stopped shaking and nothing he felt showed around his mouth, between his eyebrows, or in his eyes.
When he was satisfied, he returned to the site. He knocked on the trailer door, pushed past Ashley’s dumbfounded expression and the boxes crowding the floor, and claimed the sleeping bag from one mattress.
He locked himself in his truck and laid towels on the seat. The sleeping bag went on top.
He crawled inside it.
Too hot. Too close.
But he fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.
