Page 41 of When the Sky Breaks

“We need somewhere to stay,” Neal said, “and before dark.”

“There’s a half dozen inns here.” Ansel waved it off. “Someone will have room.”

The first inn we tried was on a pretty, upscale retail street. Austin Arms read the clean, blue-painted sign above the door. We stepped into the carpeted lobby, a few parcels still in hand, and were immediately met with a steely glare from the man behind the desk.

“No vacancies,” the innkeeper said immediately.

A row of keys hung on the wall behind him. Three were missing—seven still there.

“But you’ve got . . .” Neal tried to protest.

“Not for you!” the man snapped. “Now get her out of here before she makes someone else sick.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Ansel muttered as he opened the door and headed back into the street.

We found another inn quickly—this one rough and tumble, the paint peeling, the air reeking of smoke and bodies and stale beer.

“I’ve got plenty of rooms,” the innkeeper said immediately. “Cheap too.”

Ansel and Neal exchanged a skeptical glance.

“Can we see one first?” Ansel asked.

“Follow me,” the innkeeper said.

Ansel shuffled up the stairs, leaving me and Neal alone in the lobby. An older man, skin like cowhide, beer in his mustache, looked us over appraisingly.

“That your wife?” he asked Neal.

I tried to edge even closer, hiding my face in Neal’s chest.

“What’s it to you?” Neal snapped back with a scowl, hand going up to the back of my head.

“She got the fever?” the man pressed.

Neal didn’t reply.

“Doesn’t much matter,” the man muttered, seemingly to himself. “Pretty little thing. Lucky man.”

Neal grabbed me by the arm and marched up the stairs.

“Ansel, we’re leaving!” he shouted as soon as we reached the top of the steps.

“Right behind you,” Ansel agreed, emerging from one of the rooms. “No locks. Lots of mice. I think the mold has gained sentience.”

Back on the street I insisted they find somewhere we could sit down. Much more running around in this heat and I was going to faint. And that would really reduce our chances of finding somewhere to stay.

“You getting nauseous again?” Neal asked, crouching in front of me, one hand slipping behind my lower back and the other brushing a few strands of loose hair back from my face. I nodded, swallowing hard.

Milkweed popped out of my pocket again, chirping quietly, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

“We can’t make her sleep on the ground again tonight, Ansel,” Neal insisted.

“We’ll find somewhere,” Ansel soothed. “Just be patient. It’s a virtue. Remember?”

“If we have to be patient much longer she’s going to throw up in the dirt,” he mumbled, helping me back up.

The third inn we tried was small, tidy, and tucked back on a residential street near the church.