Three sit in a circle: Frank and Thea in a chair; Waylon cross-legged on the gravel. Thea looks about for Bamboo, but the cat is gone. Asleep at the foot of Elia's bed if she's lucky.
Thea, though, feels far from lucky. She stares across an expanse of gravel and into the eyes of a wanted man. Is he wanted, though? Maybe they let him out early for good behavior.
Unfolding his legs, Waylon props up his knees. Waiting.
Her stomach won't relent. Squirming, roiling. She chokes the cane lain across her lap in a bid to force it from her mind. "S-so, h-how did you find me, exactly?"
"Your landlord." Waylon says.
Frank bobs his head and speaks to himself. "Um-hum. She's talkative."
"Did she say anything else?" Thea says.
Eyes distant, Waylon wrings clarity from his thoughts. "Nothing about you."
Her hands tremble. "Okay. Why bring the— you know? The gun."
He glances at the distant hunk of metal, discarded near her scrounged radio. "In case a certain person finds me. Before I find them."
Just that glance and Frank tenses. He grips the armrest of his chair, set to give chase.
Thea tenses alongside him. "So, not for us?"
"No. But kept it close as a backup; in case you tried to call the police." Waylon says.
"You didn't get out for good behavior?"
"Good enough to knock my whole sentence down to a few weeks? No. And I refuse to go back; put myself under their control. You're someone that can understand that. Control. That's why you're here, isn't it? Relying on people you barely know, rather than the system you do."
Memories flash past: bare spigots pierce through mold-covered tile; shadows shift too close, sleep never comes; people in ties repeat promises for the hundredth time.
Heartbeats thunder within her chest. She claws at it. "N-No. I can't ask Elia to help you after everything she's done for me. P-Please, don't make me."
"I'm not after your kindness or hers. I need the answer to a question. Afterwards, I'm gone."
Tension ebbs. "T-That's it?" She says.
"Yes."
Frank tips his beer away from his lips. "Spit the question out, then. Got more to drink and you're spoiling the taste."
Waylon shoots a glare at Frank, but turns back to Thea. "Notice anyone following you? Averting their eyes after you look their way?"
She can nearly taste relief amid the beer's lingering cinnamon. Clenching her eyes shut, she digs through memories. "Just the cat follows me around. Tons of people look away, though. The grocery store clerks, Elia, the bus driver. I always catch him in that long mirror."
Waylon massages at his left temple. "I meant something notable: someone you'd remember. Like a guy that's wearing a Christmas sweater this early. Maybe something more garish; flamboyant. "
"No. Nothing like that."
Sighing, he pushes himself up and swats at the dirt and dust clinging to his pants. "I'm off. You won't strangle me for getting my gun now?"
Frank lowers his bottle. "Keep it slow, we won't have a problem."
Thea's heart quickens. Glee; guilt; shame.
Waylon whips around and starts off, business-like. Matter of fact. At the sight of his back, feelings writhe within her chest. She watches on. Is he going to be okay?
As the night steals all but his silhouette, a black sedan hurtles into view on the street just past the lot's chain link fence. Thea doesn't know much about cars. Blurs of colors, shapes, and logos that filter through the shop. Even so, this one is unique. Sleek, nary a chip in its paint, and heavy. She feels the earth shake with each pothole it hits, like a crowd's rumbling feet at the bottom of the ninth.
The sedan screams around the corner of an intersection — red light a suggestion. Its tail swings wide; its tires screech; it skids in an arc until centered within the lot's ever open gate.
Her thoughts of Waylon's fate falter. But— but we're closed. She thinks.
Whoever sits behind the wheel doesn't move, content to let their headlights set darkness ablaze. She shields her eyes and casts an unsure glance at Frank.
With a sigh, Frank takes a long swig. "Busy night."
Amidst the blaze, Waylon's silhouette burns at the edges. He's still; steady. The sedan creeps forward. Each inch it moves over gravel sounds like a dozen cracking bones. Closer, closer, closer.
Thea runs a nail along her teeth, searching for extra to bite away. Should I tell Elia?
Before she can decide, the sedan turns. Headlights sweep over husks of less fortunate cars and — no longer beaming directly into her eyes — casts everything into darkness.
She blinks, trying to force her eyes to adjust. It only takes a moment. The sedan sits in profile, each curve of its body glinting with moonlight and tinted windows obscuring whoever hides inside.
The driver's door swings open. It's a scarecrow of a man. Hunched — too tall to sit upright inside the cab. He climbs out and straightens up, but doesn't quite iron out his hunch.
His attire is as spotless of the car. Finely pressed suit, driver's gloves, reflective shoes. All black. Besides a white undershirt and a navy, patterned tie between his lapels. Sparing no mind for his audience, he shambles to the backdoor and pulls its handle until it clunks.
Ceiling lights inside blink on. There's someone in the backseat.
Hints coalesce into understanding and Thea's stomach falls: this isn't a customer. She bites a sliver of nail off her ring finger. No. It's not a coincidence.
The driver pulls the door open. Behind it sits an unremarkable, pear-shaped man. Normal in all respects except one: he wearing a Christmas sweater before Thanksgiving. Throughout the fabric, Reindeer prance above an idyllic, snowy landscape. Ugly reindeer with cartoonish proportions.
The man Waylon asked her about.
Frank leans over and guards his mouth with a cupped hand. "That'd be the real source of your sketchy job, I'd say. Or one of his guys."
Thea's heart freezes over. No. They're not after me. They can't be.
Three sit in a circle: Frank and Thea in a chair; Waylon cross-legged on the gravel. Thea looks about for Bamboo, but the cat is gone. Asleep at the foot of Elia's bed if she's lucky.
Thea, though, feels far from lucky. She stares across an expanse of gravel and into the eyes of a wanted man. Is he wanted, though? Maybe they let him out early for good behavior.
Unfolding his legs, Waylon props up his knees. Waiting.
Her stomach won't relent. Squirming, roiling. She chokes the cane lain across her lap in a bid to force it from her mind. "S-so, h-how did you find me, exactly?"
"Your landlord." Waylon says.
Frank bobs his head and speaks to himself. "Um-hum. She's talkative."
"Did she say anything else?" Thea says.
Eyes distant, Waylon wrings clarity from his thoughts. "Nothing about you."
Her hands tremble. "Okay. Why bring the— you know? The gun."
He glances at the distant hunk of metal, discarded near her scrounged radio. "In case a certain person finds me. Before I find them."
Just that glance and Frank tenses. He grips the armrest of his chair, set to give chase.
Thea tenses alongside him. "So, not for us?"
"No. But kept it close as a backup; in case you tried to call the police." Waylon says.
"You didn't get out for good behavior?"
"Good enough to knock my whole sentence down to a few weeks? No. And I refuse to go back; put myself under their control. You're someone that can understand that. Control. That's why you're here, isn't it? Relying on people you barely know, rather than the system you do."
Memories flash past: bare spigots pierce through mold-covered tile; shadows shift too close, sleep never comes; people in ties repeat promises for the hundredth time.
Heartbeats thunder within her chest. She claws at it. "N-No. I can't ask Elia to help you after everything she's done for me. P-Please, don't make me."
"I'm not after your kindness or hers. I need the answer to a question. Afterwards, I'm gone."
Tension ebbs. "T-That's it?" She says.
"Yes."
Frank tips his beer away from his lips. "Spit the question out, then. Got more to drink and you're spoiling the taste."
Waylon shoots a glare at Frank, but turns back to Thea. "Notice anyone following you? Averting their eyes after you look their way?"
She can nearly taste relief amid the beer's lingering cinnamon. Clenching her eyes shut, she digs through memories. "Just the cat follows me around. Tons of people look away, though. The grocery store clerks, Elia, the bus driver. I always catch him in that long mirror."
Waylon massages at his left temple. "I meant something notable: someone you'd remember. Like a guy that's wearing a Christmas sweater this early. Maybe something more garish; flamboyant. "
"No. Nothing like that."
Sighing, he pushes himself up and swats at the dirt and dust clinging to his pants. "I'm off. You won't strangle me for getting my gun now?"
Frank lowers his bottle. "Keep it slow, we won't have a problem."
Thea's heart quickens. Glee; guilt; shame.
Waylon whips around and starts off, business-like. Matter of fact. At the sight of his back, feelings writhe within her chest. She watches on. Is he going to be okay?
As the night steals all but his silhouette, a black sedan hurtles into view on the street just past the lot's chain link fence. Thea doesn't know much about cars. Blurs of colors, shapes, and logos that filter through the shop. Even so, this one is unique. Sleek, nary a chip in its paint, and heavy. She feels the earth shake with each pothole it hits, like a crowd's rumbling feet at the bottom of the ninth.
The sedan screams around the corner of an intersection — red light a suggestion. Its tail swings wide; its tires screech; it skids in an arc until centered within the lot's ever open gate.
Her thoughts of Waylon's fate falter. But— but we're closed. She thinks.
Whoever sits behind the wheel doesn't move, content to let their headlights set darkness ablaze. She shields her eyes and casts an unsure glance at Frank.
With a sigh, Frank takes a long swig. "Busy night."
Amidst the blaze, Waylon's silhouette burns at the edges. He's still; steady. The sedan creeps forward. Each inch it moves over gravel sounds like a dozen cracking bones. Closer, closer, closer.
Thea runs a nail along her teeth, searching for extra to bite away. Should I tell Elia?
Before she can decide, the sedan turns. Headlights sweep over husks of less fortunate cars and — no longer beaming directly into her eyes — casts everything into darkness.
She blinks, trying to force her eyes to adjust. It only takes a moment. The sedan sits in profile, each curve of its body glinting with moonlight and tinted windows obscuring whoever hides inside.
The driver's door swings open. It's a scarecrow of a man. Hunched — too tall to sit upright inside the cab. He climbs out and straightens up, but doesn't quite iron out his hunch.
His attire is as spotless of the car. Finely pressed suit, driver's gloves, reflective shoes. All black. Besides a white undershirt and a navy, patterned tie between his lapels. Sparing no mind for his audience, he shambles to the backdoor and pulls its handle until it clunks.
Ceiling lights inside blink on. There's someone in the backseat.
Hints coalesce into understanding and Thea's stomach falls: this isn't a customer. She bites a sliver of nail off her ring finger. No. It's not a coincidence.
The driver pulls the door open. Behind it sits an unremarkable, pear-shaped man. Normal in all respects except one: he wearing a Christmas sweater before Thanksgiving. Throughout the fabric, Reindeer prance above an idyllic, snowy landscape. Ugly reindeer with cartoonish proportions.
The man Waylon asked her about.
Frank leans over and guards his mouth with a cupped hand. "That'd be the real source of your sketchy job, I'd say. Or one of his guys."
Thea's heart freezes over. No. They're not after me. They can't be.
