I lead her back across the lot toward the room. “Enough.”
“That is vague and troubling.”
Room twelve sits in the back row, two doors down from the busted ice machine. From the window, I can see the maintenance shed and the shadows where I left the bike. I unlock the door and push it open, stepping in first.
“Wait,” she says. “Do not tell me you’re doing the scary-man-checks-the-room thing.”
I scan the room before answering.
One bed. Brown comforter. Nightstand with a cheap lamp. Small table. Two chairs. TV bolted to the wall. Bathroom to the left. Window facing the back fence. No connecting door. No closet. No one breathing where they shouldn’t be.
Not great.
Not the worst.
“Yes,” I say.
She blinks. “Oh.”
I let her in and shut the door behind us. Then I lock it, chain it, and drag one of the chairs under the handle.
When I turn, she stands in the middle of the room like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. The fight in her is still there, but the quiet is catching up now. Her face looks pale under the cheap yellow lamp. Scratches mark one cheek. Dirt streaks her palms.
My chest tightens.
I don’t like seeing marks on her.
Don’t like that I care already.
“You hurt?” I ask.
“No.”
I give her a look.
She huffs. “Scraped. Bruised. Humiliated by a bush. Nothing fatal.”
I move toward her.
She holds her ground, but her breath hitches.
I catch her wrist, turn her palm up, and check the gravel cuts there. Small. Dirty. Need washing.
Her skin is warm against my fingers.
Soft.
Too soft for the places she’s been tonight.
“You need to clean these.”
“I know how soap works.”
“I’m thrilled. Prove it.”
She pulls her hand back, but not fast.
Her eyes search my face. “What’s your real name?”
