Page 2 of Defended By Love

The alley is now too narrow for cars to park along, so it’s largely deserted. In fact, I really hope it’s deserted tonight.

I scan the alley for signs of life. My eyes stall on a crumpled pile of clothes against the wall under a slight overhang that does little to shelter from the assault of the weather.

Except, it’s not a pile of clothing. A sliver of pale cheek and a curtain of wet, dirty hair is all the evidence that indicates a person resides hunched and huddled beneath an impossible number of drenched layers.

“Couldn’t get into the shelter tonight?” I ask gently, squatting before the mass of clothing directly in the spot where the awning funnels down a persistent deluge of oversized drips.

I wait, not daring to move too much, lest I spook her. Sometimes she answers me. Sometimes she curls into herself like she doesn’t even realize I’m here.

“Wasn’t safe,” she answers eventually. Her face is muffled into the flooded fabric of a once-waterproof parka and so her words come out obscured and distant.

I want to ask more questions, to push, but I know that that line of questioning leads to her shutting down. Shutting me out. Besides, there’s nothing that I’m actually going to do with the information. I’m not going to storm down to the shelter and demand change. I’m not going to invite her to stay with me.

She’d be right to shut me down. Wanting to know her story is nothing more than idle gossip to me since I’m clearly not doing anything to help.

And I should.

If ever there was a night to help, it’s this one.

While the rest of Canada might complain of colder temperatures, no one quite seems to understand how piercing the wet cold of a constant, near-freezing rain can be here in the Pacific Northwest.

“Here,” I say, pulling my umbrella back out of my purse. I had brought it for the weather, but then thought better of using it since it’s quite distinctive. I had bought it on a rare vacation to France. I open it and Monet’s Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies spreads out before me.

The girl doesn’t take it. She doesn’t even register that anything’s changed.

I prop it against the wall so that it covers her. Then, I wait. Slowly, like a trepidatious groundhog, her hand, reddened with the cold, reaches out. My heart surges as she adjusts it to shield her from the unforgiving onslaught.

Righting myself, I stand and prepare for some light breaking and entering, feeling just a tad bit better about my minor misconduct.

“You’re probably not going to get this back.”

It’s the longest sentence she’s ever said to me. I turn and her face is upturned slightly, peeking out from her shroud of hair underneath her sopping layers. With a pang, I realize how young she is. While her body language has the fragile demeanour of an octogenarian, her face shows just how young she is. I’d be shocked if those wide green eyes have even seen their second decade.

“It’s yours,” I say, despite the fact that it is one of my favourite possessions—a lone relic of a time I dared to live a little. “Keep warm, okay?”

I don’t know if she’s heard me or not. She’s back, hidden away in her cocoon. I hope she finds some solace there, although I would settle for safety.

Then, I walk the couple strides to the back door of the office building. The door opens—the tape still holding fast in its place. I breathe a sigh of relief, even though I figured it would still be there. I was the last person to leave the building just a few short hours ago. Between the night staff getting the night off and the scary signs warning of impending fumigation, there wasn’t much chance of someone tampering with the place.

Still, I’ll call it a win that I’ll get to sneak some work home.

God, there is something seriously wrong with me.

The door snicks shut behind me, a singular, dull thud amid the battering of raindrops.

Quickly, I punch in the generic code for the security system, one that’s not tied to any one person. Really, no one should know it outside of the building’s security, but I’ve made it my mission to know everything about the building.

It has not made me very popular.

Although, not being very popular, along with being a workaholic, is sort of my whole personality.

Whatever. While everyone else is at home relaxing on their paid days off, I’ll be able to get ahead. You don’t need friends when you have the deep satisfaction of a job well done.

With that thought, I press on, dodging the haphazardly placed pile of fumigation equipment near the entrance. Clearly, I care more about my job than whoever piled this here. Between the jumble of ladders, the heavy cannisters, and the rolls of plastic, this definitely violates the fire code. If it were to fall over, there’d be no getting out that door.

But that sounds like a complaint for another time.

Eye on the prize: work.

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