Then I look at Dominic, the scar that will forever mark his face. “And you’re … memorable,” I tell him, then hold out my hand until he passes me his wallet. “You two stay here. I’ll go see about the rooms.”
There’s a smell that comes from being on the run. It’s the odor of stale, reheated coffee and dim, abandoned rooms, of seedy motels where a decade’s worth of cigarette smoke has seeped into the curtains. Inside the little motel office, the coffeepot has been on all day, and the smell of it hits me as soon as I step inside.
But, otherwise, the place is clean. Tidy. The woman behind the counter is busy with a pair of knitting needles and pink yarn. Then I realize that the entire room is covered in yarn. There is a knit sleeve over a jar of pens, a calendar holder on the wall, and at least a dozen dolls with brightly colored yarn dresses. Whoever this woman is, she really must believe that idle hands are a devil’s plaything. I doubt she’s been truly idle a day in her life.
“How can I help ya, hon?” she asks me, a big, bright smile on her face. I might be the only real person she’s seen for hours. Maybe days.
“Do you have any adjoining rooms?” I ask.
“Well”—she gives a little laugh—“we’re not exactly fully booked at the moment. I think we can take care of you.”
The sun is almost down now, and a neon light is coming to life. The word VACANCY glows green against the glass.
“Can I have two, please?”
The woman eyes me then, a little skeptical. I don’t want to know what she’s seeing. I’m still too thin, too tired, too haggard and dirty and worn. I probably look like the chased animal that I am, and there’s not a doubt in my mind this woman sees it. From her place behind the counter, looking through that perfectly clean window, this woman sees everything.
“You okay, sweetie?” she asks me, tilting her head.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Dominic is still by the car. Alexei is looking under the hood.
“Who you got with you out there?” she asks.
“Uh …” I glance over my shoulder as if I can’t quite remember the answer. “My dad,” I lie. “And my brothers. We’re …”
Running.
Lost.
But not quite lost enough.
“Where’s your momma?” the woman asks.
I look down at a neat stack of knitted coasters, finger the stiff yarn.
“She died.”
You can’t fake the way my voice cracks, my fingers tremble. And finally the woman is convinced that I’m not lying.
“Oh, heck, sweetie. I’m sorry. Here. I’ll get you those rooms.”
She’s busy for a moment, typing on a computer that might be older than I am. Then she reaches in a drawer for two heavy metal keys attached to massive plastic tags. Rooms five and seven. Our home for the next twenty-four hours, if we’re lucky.
The woman runs one of the many credit cards the Scarred Man gave me. They all have different numbers, different names. I have no idea where they came from. They may be stolen or just attached to one of his many identities. It doesn’t matter as long as they’re clean and untraceable.
“What brings y’all to Fort Sill?”
For a second, I’m sure that I’ve misheard her. I hope that I’ve misheard her. But I haven’t. I know it in my gut. I should have seen it before now. I should have felt it like a magnetic pull, a steady, constant tug. There’s a flag on the wall that was knitted out of yarn that’s red, white, and blue. I see the map now, a pin over where Fort Sill sits in the southwest corner of Oklahoma. I should have noticed the tidy stacks of flyers like tourists always grab, announcing the local sights. Almost all of them have the words Fort Sill blazoned across the top.
Maybe this was why, deep down, I was so desperate to stop here.
Maybe this is why the Scarred Man was so desperate to stop me.
“Sweetie?” the woman says, bringing me back.
“We … we used to live here.”
I’d give anything for it to be a lie, but the woman brightens at my words. She glances through the window again. Dominic is still standing by the car, so broad and tall and strong.
“Oh. Was your dad a military man?”
I look out the window at the coming darkness. A cold seeps into my bones as I say, “Yes.”
The room is dim. Heavy, old-fashioned curtains cover clean windows, and only a little light creeps into the room from the bathroom. I’m part bat now: I can see in the dark, hear every drip of water from the leaky faucet, every buzz and hum from the bathroom lightbulb that is getting ready to blow. But, most of all, I hear Jamie.
His breath is deep but labored. Just lying in bed is hard work for him. He’s no longer the boy who could wake before the sun and run around the great walled city twice before breakfast. He’ll probably never be that boy again. But he’s alive, and that’s enough.
That has to be enough.
I lie atop the covers and watch him. When he shudders and mumbles something in his sleep, I get up and feel his pulse. Faint but still there. At least his fever seems to have broken. There’s no blood coming through his bandages and staining his white T-shirt. My brother is alive. For now. And I know it’s up to me to keep him that way.