When I creep back to my own four walls, I wonder how much I抣l regret my wishes coming true.
4
Ghost Upon The Floor （Lincoln）
What a fucking day.
I know I抳e pissed off the universe when Nevermore, the pastry thief, turns out to be the most qualified candidate we have for the wedding line.
Just my luck.
She might be a black cat disguised as an angel and incredibly naive梬hy the hell did she spill her salary in the interview?梑ut at least she has writing chops.
That抯 what matters.
That抯 what makes me take a chance on a hire that抯 one big red flag whipping me in the face.
Her personality might be difficult, but once she抯 settled into working under me, I抦 confident she抣l fall in line. If she brings the same spark to her ad copy, she抣l also make me money hand over fist, whatever our personality clashes.
When all抯 said and done, that抯 the endgame.
I抦 ready to get the hell out of here by the time evening rolls around. I grab the cinnamon rolls I bagged up and leave, walking past rows of empty desks. My driver, Louis Hughes, the only employee who抯 been with the company longer than I have, waits at the curb. I open the door and slide into the back seat.
揥elcome back, Mr. Burns. Home??he asks.
揥yatt抯 first,?I say, instantly aware of how he glances back with concern.
揥ill do.?He pulls onto the street.
By now, he knows the address by heart, even if it isn抰 on any Google Maps.
I thumb through my email, responding to items Lucy flagged for me. I抦 going to be completely boned when she goes on leave. Her organizational prowess makes it infinitely easier to manage this company.
I抳e made it through five emails when the car stops in front of the familiar, large encampment. There抯 a typical Seattle spring rain pelting the windows, turning the tents outside into smears of color against the night.
揌ere we are. Should I come with you? I抦 always perfectly willing,?Louis offers.
揑 won抰 drag you out into the rain, Louis. It抯 just a short walk. Save your fussing for somebody that deserves it. I always come back, don抰 I??
His eyes linger on me, dark with worry.
揂re you sure, boss? Forgive me, but this isn抰 the safest place. The papers said there were four robberies and two armed assaults here last week,?he says. 揧ou抮e a public personality, Mr. Burns. If any bad actors recognized you and took the notion to梬ell, I might be too late to help if I抦 warming my butt in the car.?
I chuckle. 揕ouis, I was a Marine. Plus, far more of those people out there are veterans than you抎 think. If trouble goes down, I抦 sure I抣l have backup.?
Frowning, he nods.
揙f course, sir. Sorry to complain. Even after all these years, I sometimes forget you抮e a little more bold on the streets than Tillie.?
揇on抰 be sorry. Ma needed to feel safe and you always did the job. I appreciate your concern. Give me twenty minutes before you send in the cavalry to find me.?I clap him on the shoulder.
Clutching Wyatt抯 cinnamon rolls, I get out of the car, walking briskly under whatever cover I can find because I didn抰 bother with an umbrella.
I抦 a real Seattleite to the core. Having spent most of my life in this town, the rain feels like my own pulse. Contrary to popular belief, nobody who calls this place home gives a damn about getting wet.
The cool water mists my brows, my hands, the back of my neck like the pure night reaching down inside me, scrubbing away the day抯 filth梕specially my two infuriating brushes with Nevermore.
Out here, it抯 about what you expect with life on the streets.
Sadly, the Emerald City has a lot of bustling streets and parks and back alleys where this hard life is the only life anyone knows.
I pass a trio of men in worn jeans passing a bottle of cheap whiskey back and forth. Lonely women puffing cigarettes and cigarillos for an extra touch of warmth on a wet night. A oncered tent, now faded pink from the sun, small flower pots strewn around it.
Several tents later, I find him sitting beside a fire in front of his meager home, an old fisherman抯 cap yanked down over his eyes.
His cheeks are sunken. There are black rings around his eyes.
Goddamn, my best friend looks like shit, and it抯 got nothing to do with the fact that he抯 homeless. He抯 been hollowed out, drained, the kind of tired sleep can抰 fix.
He抯 never been this beat down by the treachery that brought him here, and it makes my gut wrench.
I sit down beside him.
揝orry I couldn抰 bring you a roll the other day. Like I told you, a greedy crow snatched it out from under me at the last second,?I say, pushing the bag toward him.
揑t抯 whatever.?He shrugs with his whole body, like it takes that much will just to roll his shoulders. 揧ou bring me one tonight??
揌alf a dozen to make up for the shortage. I hope you抮e hungry,?I say, offering him a thin smile.
Wyatt doesn抰 smile back. He reaches inside the bag, grabs a roll, and bites it in half the second it抯 in front of his face.
He抯 still the most human when he抯 stuffing his face with sugary carbs, his cheeks ballooning like a cartoonish chipmunk behind his grizzled beard.
He winks at me as he chews, and after a long while, he swallows and says, 揟hanks, man.?
My stomach drops.
It抯 amazing how a simple pastry brings him back like watering a wilted plant. Even so, he抯 getting thinner by the month. Dirtier and more depressed, his once bright pale-blue eyes dimmer as the days wear him down.
I can抰 fucking leave him like this tonight.
Not without offering comfort I know he抣l refuse梑ut dammit, I always have to try.
揥hen was the last time you ate??I ask carefully, knowing how much he hates questions.
He slices a dismissive hand through the air.
揂w, hell. I don抰 know. A couple days ago??He stares past me like he抯 really trying to think.
揇id you eat the bear claw??I ask, propping one leg on the empty box next to him to stretch.
揘ah.?He shoves the rest of the roll in his mouth and shakes his head, taking his sweet time without elaborating. 揑 traded it to some lady for a couple duck eggs. Scrambled 抏m.?
I smile, hoping he isn抰 bullshitting me and actually got some protein into his system.
With Wyatt, unfortunately beggars can be choosers.
He抯 one stubborn SOB. Always has been, and the streets turned what used to be an asset into a massive liability when the man barely cares about feeding himself these days.
I scan his surroundings, the modest possessions he keeps by the tent. An old canteen, a few empty ceramic pots, a broken bike lock that did nothing to stop some jackass from taking off with a small cart full of his stuff a couple months ago.
Something seems out of sorts梞ore so than usual.
I can抰 pinpoint what until my eyes fall on his tattered boot.
A single lonely, ripped-up boot.
Fuck.
So that抯 why he looks worse than usual. He抯 missing his goddamned leg. I swallow.
揥yatt, what happened to the??
揂sshole with a knife jacked it last week,?he says dully. 揑 clocked him good in the nose, but he shoved me on the ground and…yeah.?
I stare at the empty space, anger surging through my veins. 揝omeone stole your prosthetic? For fuck抯 sake, why??
揥hy not? I抳e lost everything else. What the hell抯 one more fake limb added to the pile??He laughs bitterly.
It抯 a ruthless gut punch, and he didn抰 even mean it to be.
There are a lot of things in his life he didn抰 mean.
The man just doesn抰 give two shits anymore梟ot even about his own life梐nd that抯 why that job falls to me now.