Breaking the Rules

CHAPTER

FOUR



LANDSTUHL, GERMANY

TWO WEEKS LATER

MONDAY, 4 MAY 2009


I love living in Germany, don’t you?” the Army nurse asked Izzy as they sat at the corner of the bar.

In truth, Izzy fricking hated fricking Germany. It was where his soon-to-be ex-wife Eden had run after her baby had been stillborn. She had a friend here—Anya Podlasli—who gave her room and board in exchange for help with child care. And every time Izzy had gone to try to see his wife, old stern-and-disapproving Anya with her tightly, Germanicly pursed lips, had turned him away.

The last time had been the final time, except now here he was, unexpectedly back in Germany, not far from where Eden was living. The urge to go visit her for one final final time was strong. Especially when the training exercises he’d gotten caught up in after his release from the hospital had ended a full two days before his flight back to Coronado and his next assignment as a BUD/S instructor. Whoo fricking hoo. Still, everyone had to take a turn, and it was his—spurred, no doubt, by the recent supposedly irresponsible behavior that had put him into the hospital, true, but had also saved Eden’s brother Danny’s life.

Not that Izzy had done what he’d done for Eden’s sake. He’d done it for himself and for Dan, and because sometimes rules needed to be broken.

And okay, yeah, he was a liar. He’d done it for Eden, too, because he knew she’d already had too much pain and loss in her life, and try as he might, he couldn’t make himself stop caring about that, and about her.

But he could make himself accept the fact that his marriage to her was over, so instead of hopping a train and trying to see her one final final time, he’d put on some civvies and left the base. When he got off the bus, he’d started walking until he hit the first bar.

And when he’d found this one, he’d walked in and then found the first seemingly available woman and sat down beside her.

Love Germany? Sweetheart, he was counting the minutes before he could leave.

But telling this woman that wasn’t going to get him laid. And that was his goal here, tonight, wasn’t it? Sex with a convenient stranger, to pull him out of the purgatory in which he’d resided since Eden walked out of his life.

“I haven’t ever really lived here,” Izzy told the nurse. Damn, he’d already forgotten her name. Sylvia or Cindy or … Cynthia. That was it. A pretty name for an equally pretty woman, with her red curls and blue eyes. She was dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers on her feet—which should have been a warning to him. She wasn’t here trolling for a one-nighter, in her f*ck-me shoes. She really was here for just a glass of wine. “I only drop in briefly, for visits.”

“You’re not stationed here?” Her disappointment in that news was almost palpable, and Izzy watched the integer for this evening’s potential orgasm count nosedive back to the solid zero it had been for most of the past year.

But it wasn’t disappointment he was feeling, it was relief. And that pissed him off. He didn’t want to not want sex. He didn’t want to feel as if his getting in a little recreational happy-fun was wrong—for any reason. But most of all, he didn’t want to look at a perfectly acceptable beautiful, sexy, and intelligent woman like fair Cynthia and think why bother trying simply because she couldn’t hold a candle to his soon-to-be-ex-wife.

There was a lot of room between his current state of not having any sex at all and the unearthly bliss of being sent into sexual orbit via Eden. And the sooner he moved into that as-yet-unexplored territory between the two, the better.

So even though Cynthia was giving him all of the classic pre-shut-down, this won’t work because you’re not stationed here signs, he pushed aside his feeling of relief and went for it, firing the biggest gun he had in his possession.

“I’m a Navy SEAL,” he told her, and yes, her body language immediately changed from I have to go find my friends to What friends, I never had any friends.

So he embellished, heavy on the lighthearted flirtation. “We only come to Germany to let you and the doctors check the stitches we give ourselves. And to give you pointers to use in the OR.”

She laughed at that, and her eyes sparkled. She really was quite pretty. But not even half as pretty as Eden, of course.

F*ck.

“And how are your stitches?” she asked. “Wait, don’t tell me—you need me to check them for you. Privately, of course, because you’re bashful.”

“I am.” Izzy made himself flirt back. See, he could do this. “But alas, this time I have none for you to check. I was here because I donated a little too much blood to a teammate out in the field. I needed a major resupply of my own.”

She sat back in her seat. “Oh, my God,” she said, her flirtatiousness instantly gone, her eyes wide. “You’re the one …? I heard about you.”

“Uh-oh, that’s never good,” he said, going for the laugh and getting it.

“But it was in a good way,” she corrected him. “You saved your friend’s life. I was in awe when I heard what you did.”

“In awe, like, you couldn’t believe someone could be that stupid?” he asked.

She laughed again at his stupid, and agreed. “Stupid, but heroic. Even more so because you knew what you were doing. SEALs are a lot of things, but their stupidity usually doesn’t come from ignorance. So I’ll go with heroic. I’m glad I got to meet you.”

“And to think,” Izzy said, “you could have met me a few weeks ago. What a shame you didn’t kick down my door to give me a sponge bath when you had your chance.”

She laughed again. “Because Army nurses—unlike Navy SEALs—always get to choose their assignments.”

“Then it was bad luck that kept us apart,” Izzy said, sighing melodramatically.

“Bad luck and Major MacGregor,” Cynthia agreed as she laughed, adding, “But … good luck that we both came here tonight.”

“Sharing a drink,” Izzy mused, holding out one hand, then putting out his other, as if weighing the options. “Being given a sponge bath …” He shook his head. “Sorry, not quite the same thing.”

Cynthia’s eyes sparkled again as she mimicked him with her hands. “In the hospital, on duty,” she said as she held out one, then added for the other, “In a bar, with the whole night free …”

He was in like Flynn.

And weird that he should think that. In like Flynn was actually a reference to Errol Flynn, the movie star of the 1930s, who was so dashing and daring it was perceived that no woman would ever turn him down. Dude had been so freaking hot that that expression still lived on, halfway around the world from Hollywood, and well into the twenty-first century.

And okay. It wasn’t as if all Izzy had to do was hold out his hand, and this woman would take it and lead him home to her place. He was going to have to work for it. But there was work and there was work, and this job wasn’t going to be difficult. Like most women, she just wanted a little effort on his part. She wanted him to make her laugh. She wanted a little substance along with the spark of attraction.

Which he was already delivering, as well as another drink. As he caught the bartender’s eye and motioned for another beer for himself and a glass of wine for the lady, he supposed that in like Flynn had hung around so long because it rhymed. If the guy’s name had been Errol Floyd, he probably would have been forgotten.

As Cynthia accepted a refill of her wine with a smile, as she picked up the long-stemmed glass and took a sip, Izzy knew that it was weird that he should be thinking about the origin of an expression like in like Flynn, instead of inventorying the number of condoms he had on his person and imagining this woman’s long, graceful hands and elegant lips on his body instead of that wineglass.

None. He had exactly zero condoms on him.

Because, truth was, he’d come to this bar tonight with no intention of actually getting any. And he may have been in like Flynn with Cynthia-the-nurse, but he absolutely couldn’t imagine going back to her apartment and then having to talk to her afterward.

He could imagine the sex.

That was easy to do. And if he could’ve just stood up and pulled her into some random back room and, without further ado or conversation, nailed her and then walked away, he might’ve done it.

Maybe.

But maybe not. Because he liked her.

And she wasn’t here for a casual encounter, the way he was. She was looking for a boyfriend.

“It was really nice meeting you,” Izzy told her as he paid his tab and pushed away his untouched second glass of beer and climbed down off of that bar stool. “But I’ve got to go.”

She was completely confused, so he tried to explain. “I can’t do this,” he told her. “The timing’s wrong. I’m leaving in a few days and … you don’t want that, and … I don’t either.”

Cynthia stopped him with a hand on his arm. “The timing’s never right during a war.”

And great. Now he’d moved, in her eyes, from hero to superhero. He couldn’t have delivered a line more perfectly designed to convince her to break her rules if he’d tried. And sure enough, she was ready to write him a permission slip for a completely no-strings encounter—which should have given him cause to have to work to keep his happy dance completely hidden from her view.

Instead he felt a wave of panic—and then of both shame and anger. Because he didn’t want to go home with her. In fact, the way she was touching him made him feel claustrophobic, and he shifted so that her hand fell away.

But goddamnit, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life pining for someone he couldn’t have.

So when Cynthia reached out to touch him again, when she said, “Hey, have you had dinner? Because I’ve got some chicken I was going to grill, back at my place …” When she gathered up her purse and jacket and gestured for him to follow her out the door …

Izzy didn’t say no.


LAS VEGAS

MONDAY, MAY 4, 2009

The house was quiet when Ben came home from school, and he made a point to close the screen door behind him as quietly as possible, since that was one of his stepfather Greg’s pet peeves.

Close that door like a human being, not like the wild animal that you are, boy …

Mondays sucked more than usual because Greg wouldn’t drink on Sundays, and although he was a mean drunk, he was still plenty mean when he was sober, and his going without made him crazy, too.

And his Sunday self-prohibition extended until Monday at 5 p.m., at which point a stiff drink or five were finally allowed, according to the Rules of Greg’s World. Greg compensated for Monday’s hellishness by sleeping away as much of the day as possible.

Ben usually stayed away most of Monday, because waking Greg up would get him hit or spat on, which was disgusting.

It was hard to know which was worse—Monday afternoon or Monday night, as crazy slid into a drunken mean that was wide awake into the wee hours of the morning.

He’d only come home to pick up the clothes he’d found last night, while rummaging through a box of Sandy’s things that had been shoved into the attic. There were a whole pile of shirts from her pre-childbearing years that she’d never wear again, and Ben had tossed them into the washing machine so they wouldn’t smell musty when he gave them to the runaway who hung out at the mall.

He moved noiselessly down the hall to his bedroom and grabbed the bag that he’d put them in, then swung into the kitchen to scrounge for a snack or at least a small glass of OJ to keep his blood sugar level and …

The letter was open and on the counter, addressed to Mrs. Ivette Fortune. It was from the Department of the U.S. Navy, and—holy shit—they were writing to inform her of their failed attempts to contact her via phone and e-mail regarding her son, Petty Officer First Class Daniel Gillman, who had—God, no!—recently been seriously injured.

But the letter didn’t provide details and—f*ck—it was dated April 20. There was a phone number to call for more information, along with a request for his mother to update her contact information, should they need to get in touch with her regarding Dan’s condition.

Like, if he died.

It was May fourth, and Dan could well already be dead, the letter containing that information already wending its way to Vegas. The room spun and Ben’s stomach heaved and he lunged for the fridge, yanking the door open. He grabbed the container of orange juice and drank straight from the bottle.

And got slapped on the back of his head, which sent the orange juice container flying and made him smash his nose into the closed freezer door.

“What’d I tell you about acting like a human being in my house?” said the man who’d just hit him so hard his teeth had rattled. “You drink from a glass, boy. God knows what kind of diseases a freak like you brings home!”

Yeah, he’d woken up Greg.

There was a smear of blood from his nose on the freezer, but that was the least of his problems as he turned and picked the letter up off the counter.

“You clean up this mess,” his stepfather was saying, but Ben interrupted him—something he rarely did even though he’d long since given up on trying not to rock the boat.

“Is Danny all right?” Ben demanded. “What did they say when you called?”

“Is that letter addressed to you?” Greg tried to swat the letter out of Ben’s hand, but Ben pulled back. “I said, clean up—”

“It’s not addressed to you, either,” Ben countered. “But whatever. I just want to know what they said when you called …” But as the words left his lips, he realized his mistake. He’d assumed that Greg had been as anxious and worried as he was. “You didn’t call.” He sidestepped Greg’s pathetic attempt to get back that letter even as he moved toward the dirty white phone that hung on the kitchen wall. He picked it up and … Of course. There was no dial tone. What a surprise.

“Phone’s out again,” Greg said, as if that were the phone company’s fault, not his. “Now you give that to me and clean up this—”

Ben hung up the handset with a crash as he stepped out of Greg’s reach again. “Phone’s out, because you didn’t pay the f*cking bill with the money my brother sent you. Did you pay the rent? At least you paid the rent, right?”

“Don’t you dare use that language in my house!”

“It’s my house,” Ben shouted. “The only reason the rent gets paid is because Danny sends it every month—for me.”

“Don’t you raise your voice to me, boy!”

“He could be dead—right now!” Ben got even louder as he moved to the other side of the kitchen table. “And I know you don’t give a shit about what that means to my mother and me. But here’s a newsflash for you. If Danny’s dead, he can’t send home that money. Have you thought about that?”

And in a newsflash of his own, he realized that Greg had thought about that. But he’d thought about it in terms of the insurance payout Ben’s mother would receive if Danny died. He didn’t say as much now, but his answer was all over his ugly face. Besides, he’d joked about it in the past, plenty of times. Maybe the kid’ll step on a landmine and we’ll have the money to start up that restaurant you’ve been talking about for years … Heh heh …

“You probably spent the afternoon praying that he dies,” Ben whispered.

“It would serve you right if he did die,” Greg spat as he hit Ben with a slap that stung his face and spun him into the wall. “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if God punished you for your sins by—”

Ben had had enough. He lowered his head and threw himself forward with a roar, and he hit Greg in the chest with his full weight, which wasn’t much, but was more than he’d ever done before.

Normally, he’d just cower and take his beatings.

But now they both went down onto the floor, right into the puddle of orange juice, with Greg kicking and scratching and slapping as Ben tried to keep that letter with its phone number out of the wet, even as he desperately tried to get away.

“I’ll beat you, boy,” Greg was screaming, showering him with spittle as he grabbed hold of Ben’s hair and pulled. “I will beat you within an inch of your—”

Ben elbowed him in the stomach, doing some kicking himself to get free.

His knee must’ve collided with Greg’s balls, because his stepfather screamed in pain and then started retching, finally letting go of Ben, who scrambled to his feet. He jammed the letter into his pocket as Greg curled, rocking, into a ball. If he’d known it would be that easy to win, he would’ve fought back years ago.

He had time to open the refrigerator and sweep his entire supply of insulin into a plastic shopping bag. He took the OJ carton, too, because he was still feeling pretty majorly out of body. He picked up the bag of clothes for the girl at the mall—there wasn’t time for him to pack anything for himself, which was a shame. And then, as Greg was starting to make more intelligible sounds, Ben went out the front door, letting the screen screech and slap behind him, in one final f*ck you.


LANDSTUHL, GERMANY

MONDAY, 4 MAY 2009

This was a bad idea.

Cynthia the nurse lived in a small apartment without a roommate, which meant the collections of teddy bears and Hummel figures and look—a Hummel figure teddy bear—were all hers.

What was she, ten? No, apparently not. There was a multitude of birthday cards artfully arranged on an end table that sat between a matching sofa and chair—both perkily, neatly floral-printed. Big Three-Oh one of the cards said in a cartoon bubble coming out of the mouth of a … wait for it … teddy bear. Yeah. The others were more Hallmarkie. Love and affection for my darling daughter on this special day kind of stuff.

There were a dozen of them. Two from her mother, one from her father and stepmother, the rest from aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. It was pretty impressive—the size of her support team. Impressive and nice. A lot of military personnel, himself included, didn’t get even one card on their birthdays.

The apartment itself was impeccably clean and neat, and looked like something out of a Pottery Barn catalog. Everything had a place where it belonged, and the artwork on the walls was in perfect harmony with the beflowered furniture.

Of course, maybe she’d rented the place furnished and none of this was hers.

But the tidiness was all Cynthia—no doubt about that. There was no clutter anywhere. Not even a small pile of mail or a book out and open, spine up, on the coffee table. No sneakers kicked off while she watched TV and … Come to think of it, there was no TV.

She’d gotten a phone call right after unlocking the door and letting him in and he’d given her privacy by hanging here in her little living room while she bustled into the kitchen to start cooking dinner.

Izzy now wandered over to a small collection of DVDs and CDs that sat on a shelf beneath the bears. Her music was limited to classical. She had a lot of Wagner operas, which was alarming since it was just about the only form of music that would make him bleed from the ears while going blind. But the Wagner wasn’t half as alarming as her DVDs. She had only seven—probably to watch on her laptop—and all were foreign art films, with a heavy emphasis on dramas about suicidal Scandinavians, shot in the dark of a northern winter.

“Why don’t you … um. Do you want to take a shower?” She poked her head out of the kitchen, finally off the phone.

“Oh. Thanks,” Izzy said as he moved toward the kitchen, where something was smelling very, very good as it cooked. “But no, I’m good.” He stopped short. “At least I think I’m good.” He did a quick pit check, but then realized … “Unless it’s a thing, like you need me to shower …?”

“No,” she said far too quickly, which made him know it was a thing—she definitely liked men to shower before she had sex with them.

But that was okay. Clean was fine. It was good.

“How about we both take one after dinner?” he said, and her relief was nearly palpable.

The kitchen was all a maddeningly cheery yellow—and again, everything freaking matched. The only thing missing was a sign saying ZANELLA, LEAVE NOW, BEFORE YOU MAKE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.

“That sounds … nice,” she said.

Nice? Was she kidding? But no, she was just nervous. That made two of them.

“So,” he said, searching for something to say. “You collect bears.”

She smiled. “It’s silly, I know, but my cousin’s kids started sending them to me and … They get me one wherever they go.”

“That’s nice,” he said, and God, now he was doing it, too. But it was true. It was nice. This apartment was nice. Cynthia was nice. Her family was nice. Nice, nice, nice.

“Have you lived here long?” he tried.

“Four—no, five years now,” she told him as she handed him a glass of wine that she’d poured for him. She was lovely, with a body that filled the T-shirt and jeans she had on in a very satisfying way. “I was here for two years before I finally got my things out of storage. Thank God. That was hard, living out of suitcases …”

“For me a suitcase is a luxury,” Izzy said, taking a sip. Damn, it was so sweet he nearly gagged.

“That’s terrible,” she said. “You must get so tired of it.”

“No, actually,” he said. “It’s the way I … like to roll.” Seriously? Had he just said like to roll?

But she was giving him hero-worship eyes again, and he knew that the shower-after-dinner thing was optional. She was ready and willing to do him right here on the kitchen table.

Of course the wine she was chugging was probably adding to her super-friendly do me even if you’re grubby factor. She poured herself another healthy glass and drank about half of it in one fortifying gulp as she turned to stir what looked like a mix of onions and mushrooms that were sautéing in a pan on the stove. The chicken was cooking on one of those little George Foreman grills, plugged into a power adapter to make it compatible with the German electrical system.

Lettuce and other vegetables for a salad were out on the counter and Izzy said, “Oh, good, let me help,” mostly in an effort to put down that god-awful glass of wine.

“Oh, thanks,” she said. “The knives are—”

“I got it,” he said, already finding one—it had a yellow handle, natch—and reaching to take a cutting board from where it hung on the wall. He started to cut up a pepper.

“Whenever the teddy bear count gets to ten,” she told him, “I take them over to the soldiers at the hospital. The kids send me about one a week, so it doesn’t take long.”

“That’s nice,” Izzy said, mentally wincing at his word choice as they fell back into an awkward silence. It was then that he noticed a framed photo of what had to be Cynthia, pre-kindergarten, with her parents. “Are you an only child?”

“I am now,” she said. “My little brother died in Iraq, back in 2003.”

Ah, crap. “I’m sorry,” Izzy said.

“It’s been … hard,” she said. Understatement of the century.

And Izzy put down the knife, because come on. There was no way he was going to have sex with this woman and walk away. Which meant there was no way he was going to have sex with her, period, the end, because walking away was a given.

“So,” he said as he turned to face her, leaning back against the counter. “I saw the birthday cards and, um, I’m just kind of thinking, you know, turning thirty can be kind of hard for some people. Traumatic, even. Some people go a little crazy. Do things they normally wouldn’t do …”

She laughed. “Well, that’s me. Because I never do this.” She looked up from stirring what had become a very decadent-smelling sauce to smile ruefully at him. “Never.”

No shit, Sherlock. “I can understand you wanting to get yourself a birthday present,” Izzy told her. “And as far as presents go, I’m pretty exceptional.” He’d meant it as a joke, but she didn’t laugh. Terrific. “I mean, only if you go for that kind of one-night-then-good-bye thing. I really meant what I said about that. That wasn’t code or some kind of doublespeak for maybe I’ll stick around. Or maybe I’ll call you in a few days. Because I won’t. Not a chance. I’m coming off of a fabulously, devastatingly broken heart and … On top of that, I’ve got a strong hunch that we’re actually pretty incompatible. And as long as you’re getting yourself a present, well … I would’ve thought you’d know yourself a little better.” He straightened up. “So I’m thinking I should just let myself out, if that’s okay.”

“Wait.” She took the pan off the burner and caught his arm before he could leave the kitchen. And again, just like back in the bar, he had to really work to resist the urge to pull free. “You’re just … So sweet.”

“Hardly,” he said.

“No, you are,” she said, and she stood on her toes and kissed him.

She tasted like that wine and he pulled away. She only thought she knew what she wanted. “I gotta go.”

Izzy let himself out and ran down the stairs to the street.

He walked all the way back to the base, cursing himself with every step he took, for being the p-ssy that he was.

Because, God, his stomach hurt from still wanting—always wanting—Eden.


LAS VEGAS

MONDAY, MAY 4, 2009

The boy who wore makeup—the one named Ben—was in trouble.

He staggered slightly as he came out of the shop that sold absurdly expensive coffee, and he sat down right on the floor, just out of the busy stream of mall traffic.

Neesha moved closer, eating the McFlurry that had been left behind by an impatient woman with three extremely ill-behaved children, and it was only then that she realized Ben was crying.

That wasn’t good.

She’d watched the relentless dance between the young people who spent most of their afternoons and evenings at the mall. There were two types—shoppers and walkers. The shoppers came in with a destination in mind, and left soon after, carrying heavy bags of clothing and merchandise.

The walkers were shopping, too, but not for anything that could be bought with money or carried away in bags. They were shopping for power. They were there to reinforce that power, and to be entertained by those who were weaker than they were. They traveled in packs, surrounded by the more moderately powerful who worshipped them, and they all kept constantly moving, searching for their prey.

And it wouldn’t be long until one of the packs spotted Ben sitting there.

Crying.

The weakest of the weak.

As Neesha ate her McFlurry, she knew that she should cross the stream of foot traffic to Ben, to tell him he was in danger. But that five-dollar bill he’d given her still made her leery.

But then he looked up and saw her. Wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, he pulled himself to his feet. He had two plastic bags with him, and as he wove his way through the ladies with baby strollers, he held one of them out to her.

Of course she was already backing away.

“This is for you,” he said, his words surprising her completely. He didn’t try to come too close, which wasn’t a surprise. He knew she was skittish. He just set the bag on the table that she’d moved behind so that something was between them, and then he backed off.

“It’s clothes,” he said, when she didn’t move toward it. “One of my sisters’. It was her stuff. She’s kind of gotten bigger, so … I washed it so you’d have something clean to wear.”

“I’m not giving you a blow job,” Neesha said.

“He doesn’t want one from you, shortcake, he wants one from me.” The boy who startled them both was taller and broader than Ben. He was older by a few years, too. And he was surrounded by three of his minions.

The pack had arrived.

But Ben didn’t look away from Neesha. He just briefly closed his eyes. “I’m having a really bad day, Tim. My brother is a Navy SEAL, and I just found out he’s been injured in Afghanistan, so back off, okay?”

She didn’t know what that was—a Navy SEAL—but the pack leader did.

“A SEAL?” he said. “Yeah, right. Wait, don’t tell me—he’s gay, too.”

Gay she knew. She’d watched plenty of episodes of Will & Grace. And she knew that some men came to the prison where she’d been kept, to entertain themselves not with girls or women, but with other men.

“Just leave me alone,” Ben said wearily. “Or kiss me on the mouth and pledge your undying love, because this is getting old.”

That was not the way the prey addressed the powerful, and the boy named Tim was not happy about that. But a mall security guard had noticed the tension and was heading toward them, which made the pack shift and shuffle their feet, impatient to be off.

And Neesha shifted, too, because she worked very hard to keep the guards from noticing her.

Ben understood, because he pushed the gift he’d brought toward her and whispered, “Go.”

On impulse she gestured for him to follow, because the pack was moving, changing, too, heading toward the counter where delicious-smelling cookies were sold.

She could only assume they tasted as good as they smelled, because no one ever didn’t finish one of them.

And Ben hefted the other bag he was carrying and let her lead him toward the sanctuary she’d found some weeks ago. A place where packs of kids and men seldom went—the mall’s maternity clothing store.

But halfway there, out of sight of both the guard and the pack, he stopped her. “This is going to sound like bullshit,” he said, “but do you still have that five dollars I gave you? I had a fight with my stepfather, and my wallet must’ve fallen out of my pants. I don’t have any money and my sister’s not at work—she works at that coffee place? She told me she’d be on for this shift, but she’s not there and … See, I took the insulin from my refrigerator, but I didn’t take any needles, but there’re needles—and a phone—at my sister’s apartment, and I really should’ve just gone there, but I thought she’d be here at work and …” He took a deep breath. “Bottom line, I’m freaking out because I think my brother Danny might be dead. I have to get over to my sister’s apartment, but I’m feeling really sick—I have diabetes, so it happens sometimes—and I don’t think I can walk that far. Even if I take the bus, I’m not sure I can get there without your help, and I definitely can’t get there without that five dollars to pay the bus fare.”

Neesha looked at him. She didn’t understand half of what he’d said. Insulin? Needles? Diabetes she’d heard about. She’d seen commercials on TV. Find the cure! And she understood a dead brother and a missing sister. She also got I’m feeling really sick, and she could see for herself that Ben was struggling, even just to stay up on his feet.

So she dug the five-dollar bill he’d given to her out of her pocket and held it out for him.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it from her and pocketing it himself. “Bus stops at the lower level, center entrance.”

He faltered and she moved toward him, to keep him from falling. And they walked that way toward the escalators, her arm around his waist, his around her shoulders. He was heavier than he looked, for someone so skinny. But she was stronger than she looked, so it was okay.

And for the first time since she could remember, she was being touched by someone who didn’t want sex from her. At least she hoped that was true. She found herself praying she wasn’t wrong, that this wasn’t some kind of trap. That she would go with him and … “You smell like oranges.”

“Yeah,” Ben said. “I know.”