I turn, meeting his glare head-on. “Sorry, Joe. Family shit. Rosie’s covering.”
Joe lets out a low grunt that sounds like a bear with indigestion. “Fine. But I’m docking your pay for this, Davis. And you’re working a double tomorrow.”
If I don’t fucking die tonight.
I’m already halfway out the door. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, boss.”
I burst through the diner’s doors, blinded by the fucking sun. Squinting against the glaring light, I lift my hand to block the sun’s onslaught, my wobbly legs driving me forward as I run like a maniac down the damn street.
My bag slaps against my hip with each step. My fingers fumble with my phone, dialing Em’s number.
Ring. Ring. Fucking ring.
“Come on, pick up, Em,” I mutter, dodging a group of tourists who are too busy gawking at their maps to watch where they’re going.
“Hello?” Em responds.
“Em, thank fuck. You okay? Have you heard from Dad?”
“Wren? What’s going on? I was just about to head out—”
“No!” I shout, earning a few startled looks from passersby. I lower my voice. “Stay put. I’m on my way home. Have you heard from Dad?”
There’s a pause. “Not since yesterday. Wren, you’re freaking me out. What’s happening?”
“I don’t know yet. Just… stay home, okay? Lock the doors. I’ll explain everything soon.”
I hang up before she can argue, my lungs burning as I push myself to run faster. As I round the corner onto Main Street, I nearly collide with Old Man Jenkins from the hardware store.
“Whoa there, Wren! Where’s the fire?” he chuckles, steadying himself on his cane.
“Sorry, Jenks. Can’t talk. Have you seen… John today?”
His bushy eyebrows furrow. “John? Can’t say I have. Everything alright?”
I’m already moving past him. “It’s fine. Thanks!”
Two blocks down, I screech to a halt outside Kim’s Liquor Store.
Mr. Kim is outside, his wiry frame hunched over as he arranges a display of cheap vodka. The dude’s face is frozen ina permanent scowl, his eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pulled into a tight frown. He looks like the only thing that could make him smile is a free bottle of vodka and a fucking million dollars.
I stop behind him. “Mr. Kim,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. “Have… have you seen John… Davis, my dad?”
The old man might as well be mute, for all I know. Never heard a peep from him, not even a fucking grunt. But then, I guess he’s not here to be chatty. He’s here to sell vodka and cigarettes to the kind of people who can’t be bothered to give a shit about health or the law.
Mr. Kim’s back remains turned to me, his hands mechanically arranging bottles like some kind of booze-obsessed robot. He lets out a hacking cough that sounds like it’s dredging up decades of kimchi and cigarettes.
“Mr. Kim,” I repeat, my voice edging toward desperation. “My dad. John Davis. Have you seen him?”
He pauses, one gnarled hand hovering over a bottle of off-brand vodka. Without turning, he grunts, “John Davis. Owe money. Three hundred dollar.”
My stomach drops. Fuck. Of course Dad owes money. I dig into my pocket, fingers closing around a wad of crumpled bills. “I can pay it. Just… please. Have you seen him?”
Mr. Kim finally turns, his face as expressive as a slab of concrete. His eyes flick to the money in my hand, then back to my face. For a split second, I swear I see something—pity? Fear?—flicker in those dark eyes.
“No see John,” he says flatly.
I take a step closer, the smell of stale beer and cheap air freshener assaulting my nostrils. “Mr. Kim, please. It’s important. I think… I think he might be in trouble.”
