She needed to maintain distance or he would eventually wear her down. That was something she
couldn’t allow. She needed to be done with him for her own good.
Chapter 3
The Key to Happiness . . .
“Scout? Come on, child. It’s getting dark.”
Scout turned as her mother came out of the house without windows. Boards with swirled graffiti
filled each socket, eyes to a home without a soul. Dropping the piece of onion grass she’d been
nibbling on, Scout stood, her gaze drawn back to the children across the way.
“Momma, what’s that place there?”
Her mother righted her clothing and stashed a bag of her medicine in her pocket. “That ain’t
nothing you gots to be worrying about.”
Scout regarded the children running over the blacktop, their laughter floating on the breeze and
teasing her in ways she didn’t understand. “But why’s all them kids there?”
Her mother huffed. “That’s a school, baby. Thems is there to learn.”
“Learn what?”
“Nothin’ you need to know. We different. Now come on.”
Her small fingers were swallowed in her mother’s bony hand as she was pulled down the sidewalk
back toward the tracks. Each time she glanced back at the school, her mother tugged her along.
***
Scout frowned as she carefully drew the letter E. She’d been practicing her penmanship for over an hour, simply writing and rewriting EVELYN KEATS on the tiny notepad she found in the drawer of her motel. A callous formed above her knuckle, and she admired it like the badge of honor it was.
It was three in the morning and she couldn’t sleep. She’d rested for a few hours, but awoke restless
and hungry. Nothing would be open until the sun rose, and her mind was running wild with things to
do. She desperately wanted to write them down in a prioritized list, but the task was more frustrating
than productive. She glanced at her shabbily jotted notes.
FINED HOME
FOOD
COTE
CHANJ
ADRES
TUTHE BRUSH
SHAMPU
SOAP
Her bones were weak from thinking so hard. Anger rose, and each time she thought to blame
someone else for her problems, she reminded herself her predicament was no one’s fault but her own.
Not knowing what the day would bring, around five she showered again, using tissue to carefully
wrap the remainder of soap, stuffing it into her bag. Her clothes were wrinkled and damp from
washing them in the small sink. She didn’t want them to get musty, but as the sky pinkened with the
first sight of dawn, she grew eager to leave and folded them into her bag anyway.
Her stomach cramped with hunger. She’d taken to stealing dented cans of fruit from the back room
of Clemons. It wasn’t technically stealing, being that the damaged cans were on their way to the
dumpster. Her belly was revolting, and she was growing weaker with each passing hour. Her stomach
needed a real meal, and she finally had the money to purchase one.
At seven, she laced up her sneakers and glanced around the room one last time, making sure she
hadn’t left anything behind. She returned her key to the front desk and headed west, where a small
diner was open.
Sidewalks were empty at this hour, aside from a distant silhouette moving along. The bell above the
door jingled as she stepped inside. Shiny red stools were lined up along a counter, and there was a pie safe slowly spinning at the end. The snapping scent of bacon brought her hunger pains to the forefront
of her mind. Her tired legs climbed onto the stool in the corner, far away from the truckers finding
their morning meals. Older couples filled the booths lining the windows.
A waitress with bottled black hair and red lips pressed a napkin in front of her and slid over a
grease-stained menu. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
A saucer and a mug appeared as the waitress filled it with steaming dark sustenance. The man to her
left dropped some money on the counter and left. Scout eyed the paper he’d abandoned.
“You need a minute to decide, hon?”
Her gaze returned to the waitress. “Can I have French toast, please, and a side of bacon?”
“Sure thing.” The waitress jotted down the order and, before pinning it to the clips lining the cook
window, began clearing the place to her left.
When her hand touched the newspaper Scout asked, “Do you mind if I take that?”
The waitress passed it to her and bustled off with an armful of dirty dishes. Scout self-consciously
stared at the inky words scrambled over the pages. The door chimed repeatedly as patrons arrived, and
soft chatter filled the small eatery, as did the scent of sizzling meats.
A heavy white plate slid in front of her. The French toast wasn’t as thick as the kind they served at
Patras, and there were no strawberries, but the dish still earned a jolt of excitement from her empty
belly. Sliding the paper aside, she picked up her fork and knife, noting the tiny scratches in the
imitation silver, and dug in.
It was irritating not being able to clean her plate, but her stomach was overly sensitive from lack of