Page 4 of Them Bones

For six months, Shane had shown up at the bakery. And for six months, Dustin hadn’t once poked his head out that door empty handed. The kid was more reliable for food than the damnsoup kitchen, who wouldn’t feed him unless heprayed, and tried to force him to stay at their shelter with the weirdos who liked to jerk off at the foot of his bed while he was trying to sleep.

But that morning the clock ticked on, and Dustin didn’t open the door.

By the time 5:00 rolled around, Shane trudged to the front to knock on the shop door. The lights were off, and it was clear nobody was inside. His stomach grumbled angrily as he sighed with disappointment – maybe the kid was sick, or something.

He wracked his brain for options, not realizing how dependent he’d gotten on that bread to get him through the week. Sometimes the diner down the road would let him do dishes in exchange for a peameal sandwich, if he cooked it himself. But only when Shel was working, and Shel never worked Tuesdays.

Sometimes Vince’s put a big basket of bruised produce with clearance stickers on their back loading dock instead of right into the dumpster, but you had to get there before dawn or it was all snapped up and it was at least a thirty minute walk. He always hated that, anyway – he found it hard to swallow food with a pink clearance sticker on it, knowing that people with money in their pocket refused to buy an apple because of a little bruise, or a banana because of a little brown.

Must be fucking nice.

He sighed and sat down on the curb, warring with himself for the eighty millionth time if he should just pull a little B&E and load up his pack.

Cody had been good for chips, or crackers, for a while over the summer, feeling guilty that Shane couldn’t stay. But he disappeared a lot, and his mom rarely opened the door for Shane. Said Cody’s cousin was pregnant and they had enough mouths to feed. She let him shower sometimes, though.

And so that’s where Shane found himself, at 5:17am on an unseasonably cold Tuesday morning in October. Ass frozen to the curb, head in hands, trying to will himself to get up before the ladies that worked at the payday advance place showed up. He was so distracted by his rumbling stomach that he didn’t hear the quiet footsteps approaching behind him.

“Hands on your head,” said a voice.

His heart exploded out of his chest, and his throat closed up.

Pure. Panic.

Fuck.

LANEY

Laney had taken a punch before. But holyshitballs did her face hurt.

There was a ringing in her ears, and she was aware of frantic movement but could only see white spots. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, her cheekbone vibrating like a Hitachi at a porn convention, pain erupting behind her eye socket and splintering across her skull.

A voice came into focus, sort of, squeezing itself into her brain amongst the unwelcome fire drill going off full force in her head.

Oryehokee?!

She squeezed her eyes shut, not sure what the fuck that meant and wanting the noise to stop.

Okay?!More frantic, this time.

Please stop making noise…

“ARE YOU OKAY?!” the voice practically shouted.

“I WILL BE IF YOU STOP SUPER-SONIC INJECTING YOUR ANNOYING-ASS VOICE DIRECTLY INTO MY CONCUSSION COCKTAIL!” she shouted back.

Silence.

Ah. Much better.

She felt a freezing cold hand on hers and winced, but it gripped her firmer, sliding her coat up her forearm, two fingers pressing into her wrist.

“What are you doing,” she groaned.

“Taking your pulse.”

“Why,” she huffed, snatching back her hand. “I’m not having a coronary, I just got clocked in the fuckingeye.”

A pause. “It’s all I could think to do,” said the voice.

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