The boy nodded and turned back to his father. His father and he then nodded in unison, after the two went back upstairs to their apartment. Booker sighed and looked towards the crowd of curious neighbors, they all looked back. “Well? Go on, then!” He cried from his door. “Don’t you all have jobs, or something?” The group mumbled collectively until they dispersed. Booker stepped back inside his apartment, closed the door, and leaned back on it. He chuckled, “Coerced by a kid.” He mumbled. Booker looked down at the floor in restlessness and noticed he was still in his pajamas from the night before. He felt a small pang of embarrassment. He had just nearly broken the foot of his neighbor, got strong armed by a kid, no less, all in his robe and flannel pants. He rushed into his bedroom and swung open his closet.

The light bulb overhead fizzled when he pulled its cord. It sputtered and popped, but it still could not start. Booker groaned, but continued to sift through his closet. His wardrobe consisted mostly of dress shirts, sweater, and pleated pants. Fancy shoes and loafers were stacked on boxes on the floor, not being used since Booker retired from his job as a biomedical engineer. He remembered the long days in cold, stuffy labs, creating small patches of synthetic skin for burn patients. His lab coat, wafting in the overpowered A/C, his hair matted, and his beard unshaven. Booker felt his chin, still unshaven, yet now, sprigs of grey hair sprouted from his jaw, and his scalp. His assistant, Alessa, how they would talk in the lab, staring out the window, looking down on the campus below them. He had never met a woman as smart, as kind as she was.


He took a white shirt, a grey sweater, and a brown pair of pants from the closet. He quickly put them on, in case another fight happened in his front hallway. He checked himself in the mirror, boring as usual. He stepped back out into his living room. It remained untouched. He rested his hand upon the light switch, upon the pea green paint. His hand flicked across it, still no light. He sighed and sat back down in his chair, again, pulling the note out from his pocket. It read: “9475 W. Ruel Lane. Dayton, Maine. 5653 Fox View Lane. Jackson Maine. 4234 Jameson. West Forks, Maine.” All completely obscure addresses, but nearby. Booker stopped himself, he wasn’t seriously considering taking on the task was he? He shook his head, of course not. He probably wrote all of this down in a drug induced hallucination, he did swallow all those pills. He heard a knock on the door. Becoming irritated with all the visitors, Booker opened the door swiftly. There stood the boy with a suitcase and a backpack. Booker was surprised, “What do you think you’re doing?” He inquired softly, with an irritated tone. “My dad told me to stay here, and before you have any objections, my dad just locked the door behind him.” He replied. As soon as he said it, a short, fat man scrambled down the flight of stairs yelling goodbyes to his son. Booker sighed and stroked his chin. He couldn’t turn the boy down, so he stepped out of the way and let the boy enter. “Huh, nice place you’ve got here, Mr. Moss. Must’ve taken a long time to get all these artifacts.” He taunted, of course, referring to the archive of books that were stocked in the shelves that took up two walls, running his fingers across the spines as he walked across the shelves.


“All the more reason for you not to touch them.” Booker scolded as he snatched Piper’s wrist and removed it from the shelves. Piper looked up at Booker with an accusing stare which deflected off of Bookers cold eyes.


“On a different note,” Piper adjusted the conversation. “Where should I put this stuff?” He asked as he jostled his things lightly. “Should I put them in here?” He proposed, looking to the one door opposite the shelves. The door seemed crippled with disuse, its handle old, and gilded with an amber metal. An antique lock underneath the knob, which hadn’t seen use in years. Its neglect was obvious, and Bookers throat clenched at the mention of it. “No, you’ll be camping out in the living room, by the kitchen counter.” Booker pointed to the wall left of them, to the kitchens open wall. Near the counter was a small space, large enough for a child’s futon. Piper nodded and trotted over to the designated spot to place his things down. Booker looked back on the door mentioned earlier, and sighed. He readjusted his glasses and coughed.


Piper presented him two bottles, one orange and transparent, another a paper box containing over the counter medication. “I need one shot of the orange bottle once a day, and I can take the sleeping pills on my own, if that’s okay.” He said. Booker read over the orange bottle, wanting to know its contents. “What is this for?” He needled, shifting his glasses to read the label. “It’s for CLL.”

“Meaning?”
Piper sighed. “Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia. It’s terminal before you ask; most people do. That liquid is full of healthy antibodies, since mine are infected.” His tone dropped to a melancholy mumble. Booker became uncomfortable at the conversation. He scratched his brow, and cleared his throat. He handed the pills back to Piper and instructed him to leave them on the counter. Piper slumped over to the counter and left the pills there. “Well, what now?” He called, trying to lighten the mood. “We just hang out here?”
“Not exactly, you’re staying here, I’m going to do some errands.”
“Yeah, like what?”
Booker glanced to the adolescent, and scrambled for an answer, not wanting to tell him: ‘Death sent me on a mission’. “Uh,” he stuttered. “I’m visiting an old friend.”
“Who?”
“Um, I went to college with him.”
“Where?”
Booker glanced back at the boy whose face now beamed with inquiry. He sighed. Piper grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m coming with.” Booker was shocked, “Why?”
“It’s better than bumming around in your house. Besides, do you really trust me with all you expensive books? Alone?” Booker grumbled, “Fine, just bring your meds, too. I don’t know how long we’ll be out.” Piper ran out the door and scrambled down the steps. Booker solemnly followed him to the front door and grabbed his brown trench coat. This was going to be a long trip.


The front steps of the apartment building were still coated in mud and grime from the day before. The wind still blew harshly upon the street, and paper flew vivaciously through the air. Piper laughed at the flowing wind, while Booker winced at each piece that skid across the pavement. Booker’s green station wagon rested silently, remaining untouched by the storm, to his own surprise. He made his way over the other side of the vehicle to unlock the doors, while Piper tried to open the doors on his own, not realizing that the car was too old for remote unlocking. The car door opened with a small “Poque” sound, and the smell of antique car filled his nostrils. Piper stepped inside and became excitement at the sheer age of the car. “How old is this car?” He asked.


“Older than you, I’m sure.” Booker quietly replied, turning the keys in the ignition. The station wagon was old, and battered, while marked with use. The beige leather had imprints in it, and the carpet was dry. The exhausted headlights sputtered on, and the engine emitted a sorry roar as the car started up, after minutes of frustration.
Booker gave a sigh of relief as the car woke up, he wasn’t sure if it still worked. He hadn’t used at all in the past few years, not after Alessa had that surgery. He remembered having his two sons in the back seat, joyfully playing and bothering each other. They would be screaming and laughing back there, as Alessa rest her feet on the dashboard. Her favorite sunglasses still sat in the cup holder, exactly where she liked them.
It was dusk then, as Booker pulled out of the parking spot and began to head west onto the highway. Clouds overhead swept over the amber skies. The sun, after an eventful day, was falling into black slumber behind the world, safe from prying eyes. The road was coarse and speckled with litter and refuse, sullied cups and pieces of homes. Other cars headed in the same direction passed Booker and Piper, hastily escaping town. Only God knows why, the storm was over, Booker thought. Trees devoid of leaves remained standing on the sides of the road, tall and sickly brown coloured. The street lights that tested the storm’s strength light up one by one as the two progressed down the road. Piper sat silently in the passenger’s seat, staring out the window onto the copper overlay of the sky. His hands lay piled on his lap. His reflection in the foggy window showed an unblinking face. Curls of black hair crept out from underneath his wool hat and coiled up the brim. Booker’s eyes turned back to the empty road before him.


Overhead, the clouds of the small hurricane’s aftermath began to clutter above the struggling, senile station wagon. Small puffs of light came from inside the mass of grey, still clustering above the car. A storm was brewing, and soon the conditions of the road would be unstable, and Booker couldn’t risk not being able to continue. His brow folded into a concerned look. Piper sat up in the seat beside him and stretched. “What’s up,” he yawned. “Why the horse face?” Booker replied: “It’s not a horse face. I’m thinking.”
“Why the thinking horse face?” Piper giggled to himself. Booker was unamused by his childish commentary. “Open up the glove box and take out the map for me, will you?” The boy leaned forward and unhatched the antique glove box that sat underneath the dashboard. It opened with a large, plastic whine of unoiled metal hinges. The box was cold and dark, the car was so old that it didn’t have a light inside. Piper laughed, “This thing really is old, isn’t it?”
“...”
“Right..?”
“...”
“Ri-”
“Yes.”
The car had finally met the exit onto the interstate highway, and Booker pulled to a stop at a 24-Hour gas stop. Piper reveled in the lights from the roof of the pumping station, and found the road map with ease. Booker gave him the address of the rest stop, and Piper pinpointed the location, he tapped where they were with his finger. Booker took the map and held it close to his eyes, he tilted his glasses in order to see it clearer. He mumbled to himself, “... We’ll take the I-95 up, and that’s about 20 miles... including toll roads, and queues, so... about forty minutes.”
“That’s how long it’ll take? That’s not so bad.”
“Hm. Along with the storm, though. That’s mean we have to pack it in. I’m going inside the stop to find a phone book so we can find a motel or something. Don’t move.”
Piper sighed and slumped in his chair. “Why can’t I come in with you?”
“Because I said so.” Booker said crassly. “I won’t be but a minute, so why don’t you practice being quiet, huh? You seem to have trouble with that.” Piper crossed his arms and turned his head towards the window. “Fine.” He pouted, not looking back at Booker. Booker closed the car door and walked towards the doors of the gas station. They slid open at the presence of the man, chiming out to the occupants that a new customer had arrived. Piper watched him go in, fiddling with the knobs upon the dashboard of the car. Booker stood up to the counter, and knocked on the top of it, vying for the clerk’s attention. The attendee was an older woman, her face was old and wrinkled, her nose upturned and droopy. She raised her eyes toward him and groaned, “What is it?”, she asked in her old, scratchy voice. Booker cleared his throat and asked where the phonebooks were. The clerk groaned once again and handed him a thick, worn book from underneath the counter.
“Give it back once you’re done,” she said, turning back to her prior business. “Have a nice night, sir.” Booker flipped through the pages, looking through local resting spots.
Piper sat in the old, green car. Alone. He listened to the constant sound of wind from the cars coming off of the highway, directly across the street from the gas station. He watched the strange men and women enter the slummy establishment. Fluorescent rays of artificial white shined in from up above the car, casting beams upon the wooden dashboard. He sighed, and picked up the map once again. The two were about twenty miles from home now, since they left in the early afternoon. It was past dusk then, the sun had completely found its refuge behind the accusing eyes of men.
He thought about Booker, what a strange man. He was quiet, but not awkward. He was rude and sarcastic, but felt safe. He remembered being smaller, and hearing tales about the man and his wife down in flat number four. How he supposedly killed his wife, and sent his two daughters away to a boarding school. Until now, Piper had believed these urban legends, the fruit of a child’s imagination. But now, he couldn’t be sure. Booker certainly seemed exactly like a cold father, but not a killer. His father wouldn’t trust him in the care of a murderer. His home seemed relatively normal, if not unkempt, and he didn’t have any strange habits, except cutting off conversations. He thought about Booker as a person, and doubted their destination. The thought of Booker having a healthy social life, and visiting friends from the past didn’t paint a clear picture in Piper’s mind. Booker looked too uncomfortable to have friends. He sighed again, he shouldn’t be judging this old man. He doesn’t know what might’ve happened to him, he might have Booker all wrong. Maybe. He couldn’t ask either, it wasn’t his place to be asking such in-depth questions.
Booker came back into the car, to find Piper looking out the window still. He started the car with his key, and backed out of the parking lot. “Did you find a hotel?” Piper inquired, propping his head up on his right fist.
“I did.” He replied.
“Mind if I know the name?”
“It’s called: ‘The Lodge’. I don’t like it, but it was the closest place.”
“Sounds dodgy.”
The car turned onto a long avenue, full of retail stores. Lights from signs and windows flooded into the car, blinding Piper, forcing him to pull down the visors. He picked at his fingernails nervously, contemplating on whether to ask Booker about what he thought about while he was gone. Booker continued down the road, tilting his head in search for the motel. “Mr. Moss?”
“What?”
“... Did- did you have a family?”
Booker looked accusingly at the boy, but quickly turning his eyes back to the road. “I hardly think that’s any of your business.”
“It’s not that hard of a question, y’know. It’s just whether or not you had a family! It’s not like I asked you about your childhood!”
“I shouldn’t have to answer any questions from the likes of you.”
Piper exhaled through his nose heavily, any thought of another question. “Okay, well. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a shelver.”
“At?”
“A bookstore.”
“Which bookstore?”
Booker eyes became darker, his brow curled. “Look”, he growled. “I hardly think this is the time for ‘20 Questions’. I’m busy, and my business is exactly that. My business. I didn’t offer to look after you to answer a load of asinine questions.”
“Then why did you take me in?”
“Oh, look! More questions!”
Piper turned away and folded his arms across his chest, his head returned to the view out of the car window. Booker sighed, and turned back to the wheel. A sign came above the view point, it was large and dim. In broken neon letters, a sign that read ‘Lodge’, begrudgingly shown itself to the two. Booker nodded and turned into its parking lot, and slowly found a seat. Piper angrily threw the car door open and stepped out. Booker did the same.