“Yeah, like from your head, not from a book.”
George blinked. She didn’t think she had any stories in her. Did she?
“Um.” She cleared her throat, caught Jessie’s eye roll, and went on with a laugh. “Sure.”
Dinner was an odd assortment of appetizers, all thrown together on a platter, with a bottle of cheap white wine. Unfamiliar though it all was, George loved it—every second of it.
“All right, G, you gotta get those teeth brushed.”
“Come on, Mom. You said I could stay up and—”
“No way! Brush your teeth and—”
“Fine. But I want that story.”
George smiled. “Just come get me when you’re ready.”
She watched mother and son traipse off down the hall, her heart a little tight in her chest as she listened to the arguments, brushing, and splashing. Finally, a door opened, and Jessie came back up the hall to whisper, “Not sure what’s going on. Usually, he reads to himself, but…maybe it’s the new house? Anyway, you don’t have to do this.”
“It’s fine,” said George, meaning it. “I want to.”
Gabe’s room was the only fully furnished room in the house. This was where money had been spent. Kid stuff all over, bright colors, comic book characters. Spider-Man sheets and Pixar posters.
George hesitated in the doorway, unsure where she was supposed to sit, until Gabe patted the spot next to him on his bed. She walked over and settled carefully beside him. Little boys were not something she knew much about, but this one seemed to like her, which was strange in and of itself.
“Okay. I’m ready,” he said.
George had no idea what she was going to say. Crap. She hadn’t planned for this. “Um, so what kind of story do you want?”
“A monster.”
“A monster?”
“Yeah, you know. Maybe a monster nobody wants.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She thought about it for a few seconds, ignoring the image that rose up out of nowhere—Andrew Blane, haunting her mind’s eye, again.
“So, um…Bob. Bob is a monster. And he arrives one day in a small monster town.” She paused, cleared her throat.
“Wait. They’re all monsters?”
“Yeah. And nobody wants to be friends with him. He’s just another monster, but he looks different. He looks scarier.”
“How? What does he look like?”
Oh. God, George wasn’t good at this. No imagination. At all. “He has paint all over him.”
“Paint.”
“You know, like…tattoos. His paint tells bad monster stories.” She groaned inwardly.
“Ooh,” said the child, apparently understanding something that George didn’t quite get herself.
“Yes. He’s got these marks all over his skin. They tell a story about him, where he’s been, who he is, what he’s lived through. And Bob wants those marks gone.”
“Why?”
