“What about?” asked Jack, even though he had a strong inkling as to the answer.
A sigh. Boris dragged his hand through his hair. “I’m gonna do it. Gonna get someone to take care of the dog and my dad’s house. Then I’m gonna do it.”
For a moment, Jack could hardly believe it. Could hardly breathe. Then he climbed unsteadily to his feet and made his way to the bedside table, where a decrepit phone waited. Inside the tightly curled cord was a tunnel of dust. It sprayed onto the carpet as he lifted the receiver. “I need to do something.”
The receptionist answered in a cheerful voice. “Dogwood Motel. How can I help you?”
“I seem to have misplaced my calendar,” said Jack, as politely as he could manage when his voice sounded like it belonged to someone who had just gargled gravel. “Could you remind me what day it is?”
“Oh sure, hon. It’s Wednesday the eighteenth.”
“The eighteenth?” Jack repeated, numb from his scalp to his toes.
“Yup! Wednesday, October eighteenth. Do you need anything else?”
“Um, no, not at this time,” said Jack, shaking uncontrollably. “It’s just that my friend here doesn’t believe me. Do you mind repeating the date for him?” He gestured. Boris rose to take the receiver.
“Yeah?” His face was carefully blank. “Alright. Yeah. Thanks.”
He hung up the phone. Went back to the table.
“It's the eighteenth,” he mused, frowning up at the stained ceiling. “It’s the eighteenth and I’m gonna fucking do it.”
Carla sat up, blinked sleep from her eyes. “It’s the eighteenth?” She looked between them in disbelief. Streaks of mascara and soot ran down her face, leaving stains behind on the pillows.
“Yeah,” said Jack. Tears burned at his eyes. He scrubbed them away before anyone could see. “It’s the eighteenth.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s tomorrow!” she squealed, leaping from the bed to throw her arms around him. “It’s really tomorrow!”
He squeezed her tight, afraid this might be their final embrace. “I think it’s finally over.”
Her face pressed against his shoulder. Hot, wet tears soaked his shirt. “The house is gone,” Carla said, voice muffled. “Ronnie’s gone.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said, and meant it.
“I know, Jack. I know.”
They sat in silence. After a while, Carla dared pose the question. “What do we do now?”
“I’m gonna take the offer,” said Boris with a miserable shrug. “There’s nothing else for me. I can’t spend the rest of my life worrying about this when I could learn how to fight it.”
Carla poured a cup of coffee. The chipped mug trembled in her hand. “Guess I’d be stupid not to.”
Jack only nodded, stomach twisting. A hundred thoughts rattled around in his skull. For the life of him, he could not capture a single one.
When the sedan pulled in front of the motel, he marched outside with one hand in Boris’s, the other in Carla’s.
“We’ve decided to accept your offer,” she said as soon as the window rolled down.
The yellow-eyed man nodded. “I knew you would.”
The doors popped open. Jack inhaled, waited for Carla to squeeze into the middle.
But she stood there, brows drawn together in confusion. “Um, what is that?”
