“She knew that,” Nimble said quietly. “The five dollars was for me to spend.” He pulled down a blanket or quilt that was folded across the back of the couch and shook it out to lay it over Morgan, imagining it landing like a warm feather, and for that he could be glad.
“Shower,” Morgan barked, as though, now stretched out on the couch that he had described as wide and comfortable, he’d regained some of his irritability—though maybe this was just for show. “I mean it. You smell like train.”
“Yes, boss.” Nimble smiled as he took a good, long breath. He looked around the darkened room, listening to the wind and snow howling beyond the windows.
They were in the middle of nowhere, on an island in a sea of snow and cold. He was lucky to have shelter. Without it, he might have died. And without him, Morgan might have?—
Nimble shook himself. He’d put the groceries away. Then he’d shower slowly, to give Morgan more time to rest.
Then he’d heat up soup for their dinner. Toast with butter. And do the dishes afterward, which he used to hate doing back home. Riding the rails, they’d sometimes rinse their metal bowls and cutlery, though if there was no water, they’d use sand to scrub them clean. He was lucky to have hot water and soap now.
He’d take care of everything to pay Morgan back for not turning him over to the law, for giving him a warm place to sleep. For not asking questions that Nimble wasn’t ready to answer and only complaining that Nimble smelled like train.
Which he did. Of course he did. Trains had been his life for over a year, but for now, for a little while, at least, the world had given him something different.
CHAPTER 6
nimble
Nimble peeled off his leather jacket and flannel shirt and put them on the back of a wooden chair to dry a bit, then unlaced his ratty boots and worked his feet out of his wet socks. He was going to do everything he’d said he would, but first, that shower.
The last time Nimble remembered being wet all over was at the end of the previous summer, when the three of them had gotten off one freight train and headed across the rail yard to catch another. Along the way, Blue had spotted a small motel next to the yard and someone coming out of one of the rooms to go to their car.
Blue had nudged Nimble, who looked at Star, who nodded. The room was at the back of the motel; the door was wide open, and it was the perfect opportunity.
Forgoing the train, the three of them trotted over and piled into the room, put the Do Not Disturb sign out, closed the door and locked it, and argued over who would get to take the first shower.
They did rock-paper-scissors, but then, because Nimble was sure Blue was cheating—even though Star insisted that you couldn’t cheat at rock-paper-scissors—they drew matchsticks.Blue still won, but what did it matter? The hot water at a motel was always endless, and as Star flicked through the channels on the TV, Nimble took a snooze on the rumpled bed while waiting for his turn.
The motel was so run-down that nobody noticed how long they stayed in that room. By the time they left, they were sparkling clean inside their grubby clothes. They removed the sign and closed the door carefully behind them before making their way up the trash-flecked slope back to the rail yard, there to jump the next train on their way to anywhere.
Nimble remembered it being a warm, sunny day, the breeze delicious against his clean skin.
That had been a one in a million chance. Typically, they cleaned themselves using bandannas for washcloths or coffee cups of rainwater—or spit. He’d learned to shave dry with used plastic razors he found in the trash, learned to build a fire in a bucket on a moving train, learned to do without. Which was why this shower was going to be absolutely fucking amazing.
Barefoot, damp hems slapping against his ankles, he padded down the semi-dark passage from the kitchen to the bathroom.
It was as wide as the kitchen, with white tiles around the sink and shower and white-painted walls, and dusty from disuse. Along the left side were an old stacked washer and dryer and a floor-to-ceiling shelf that held tons of stuff: towels, washcloths, a rubber shower mat with suction cups all rolled up and ready for use.
There were bars of soap, cleanser, sponges, laundry detergent. And—yes!—disposable razors and two ancient-looking cans of shaving cream.
After enjoying a long, satisfying pee in the white toilet, Nimble took a razor and a can of shaving cream to the pedestal sink and pulled the chain to turn on the square light above the mirror.
He was going to let Morgan sleep off his meds, and he was going to enjoy every single damn minute of this: his first time in a real bathroom, in a real home, in a long, long time. Hopefully, the hot water would hold out long enough for him to live it up. He wanted to shave real close and scrub every bit of train off him, and maybe there’d be an old jar of aftershave somewhere when he was done.
Smiling at his reflection in the mirror, he quickly washed his face, then sprayed the foam into his hand and lathered himself up until he looked like a dark-haired Norwegian gnome. Then, running the hot water a bit at a time to rinse away the foam and hair, he shaved, revealing stripe after stripe of pink-white skin, scraping away the old to reveal newness beneath.
By the time he was done, one cheek felt a little raw, as though he’d shaved too vigorously, but that was okay. He’d not realized how much he’d missed bits of civilization like this. Back home, he’d not thought twice about shaving or how nice hot water was.
He flicked a glance at himself, noting the mess of his dark hair and the grime around his eyes and across his forehead. Now, in contrast to the clean scent of the foam, he ducked his head to smell his T-shirt, his skin.
Yes, he smelled like diesel fuel and locomotive engine oil. He needed to wash the train off him before he made dinner so Morgan, when he woke up, wouldn’t get irritated all over again.
The large, square-bottomed shower with its plain, pale gray curtain pulled to the side and tucked behind a black iron hook beckoned to him. But first, something to change into after he was clean.
Morgan had said he could go into the bedroom to get clothes to borrow, and Nimble did, tiptoeing as he went along the passage and leaned into the open doorway, fumbling for the light.
The bedroom was as large as the bathroom and the kitchen combined, a vast echoing space with a ceiling fan and a long closet that took up almost the whole wall on his right. Across the room, on the far wall on either side of a large window, were a bookcase full of books and a tall dresser with a mirror on top. The queen bed was on his left, with a small wooden nightstand on each side.
