He shrugged. “This is no worse than the Institute.” Finishing his last cookie, he went over and began to make his bed, hospital corners and all.
I’d heard the capital I in institute. That must be what they called the compound. Filing it away for a later subject of questioning along with his odd use of the word “what,” I took a change of clothes into the bathroom and showered. I left the door open to hear if Michael changed his mind and decided to make a break for it after all. The trickle of lukewarm water did little to drive the fatigue from my body or mind and I hurriedly soaped up. Climbing out ten minutes later, I dried off and wrapped a towel around my hips. The open door had kept the mirror from fogging and I shaved with a few quick strokes. Slipping on jeans and a sweatshirt, I pulled my wet hair back tightly. Before we left I would stuff it up in a baseball hat. I hadn’t been seen, yeah, but it didn’t hurt to change the look. If we were somehow traced to this motel, they could easily get a description of me from the desk clerk.
“Michael, you’re up.” I walked back into the room and gathered some of my clothes for him. “Here’re some sweats and more ointment for your feet. And I think I packed some sneakers that’ll do. They might be a little big, but I don’t think we’ll be doing much hiking.”
He accepted the bundle wordlessly, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. I guess he had no fear that I might make a run for it. By the time he returned with damp hair and sweat clothes that bagged on him, I was nearly ready to go. Handing him the tennis shoes, I took the white pajamas from him. Taking out my penknife, I began to methodically shred the cloth to small, easily flushable pieces. “How are the feet?”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he put on the shoes and tied the laces neatly. “Fine,” he said. He still didn’t know how to react to the concern, and it showed in the faintly mystified glance that he shot my way. It made me sincerely wish that Saul had used a real gun instead of the stun variety on that son of a bitch in the back of the van. That something so simple and basic as concern had been lacking from Michael’s life, it didn’t do much for the inner fire that had been smoldering since I’d seen that first room in the compound basement. “Let’s go, Misha,” I said gently. “There’s greasy food out there with our name all over it.”
“Misha?” He stood in shoes that surprisingly seemed to fit. Big feet had always run in our family.
“Michael is a mouthful,” I lied. If I couldn’t use the name I’d known him by since the day that he’d been born, then I wanted a name we could share . . . a name that wasn’t one those bastards had given him. The diminutive for Michael would do. “Misha is a nickname for Michael.” I cocked my head, deciding to go into our Russian heritage later. “That okay?”
He thought about it, then nodded. As always, he wasn’t exactly swimming in enthusiasm, but I counted it a win regardless. He did as well, I imagined, getting to keep at least a portion of the name he was attached to.
After disposing of the pajama remains down the toilet, one less thing to use to trace us, I hefted my bag and we headed out into the pastel dawn light.
Even the soft yellow and pink illumination stabbed at my eyes and I put on a pair of sunglasses the minute I entered the car. The brim of the baseball cap helped as well. After the nearly constant adrenaline rush of last night followed by no sleep, I had what was as bad as any hangover.
“Sleep deprivation can cause a significant decrease in performance and concentration,” Michael said absently as he watched a portly family of five through the passenger side window. Early risers as well, they were unremarkable in all but size, shockingly loud tourist wear, and a large chocolate cruller wrapped in each pudgy hand. And I knew for a fact which of those three had caught Michael’s attention. The kid had a jones for sugar like I’d never seen, and I had no one to blame for that but myself. With an almost wistful sigh, he turned back to me. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.” I liked that he was beginning to ask questions . . . waking up to the new world around him. I also hoped it meant he might be willing to listen to a few questions of my own. “I wanted to keep watch. But I’ll sleep tonight.” I wouldn’t have much of a choice. By tonight I would be too exhausted to fight it. Puzzled, I added an observation. “You’re full of fun little facts, aren’t you? Like the sleep thing. What kind of freaky classes did you have in that place?”
We were on the road again and had gone several miles before Michael finally spoke. “I’ve never talked with anyone outside of the Institute. I don’t know what to say.” It was hard for him to admit, as evident in the strained patches of white beside his mouth. “If this is a test, I’m doing badly. So badly.” He shook his head.