successful novelist.
It was an arduous task for Michael to reach the depths of concentration necessary to coax his muse out of her robe and slippers, and today was one of those days when it just wasn't going to happen. He scrolled through his manuscript one last time, trying to get flowing again, but his muse simply laughed at him and put another log on the fire.
Frustrated, he highlighted the entire page of manuscript and hit DELETE. Then he stood up from his desk, closed his computer, and walked out the door.
– Michael exited his building through the underground garage, walking the steep driveway up to the street. He braced himself against a strong wind and bitter cold and thought about going back for a heavier coat, but he was afraid he'd end up back at the computer, so instead he just pulled up his collar and toughed it out.
As he crossed the street to Creek Side Park (a quaint inner-city park with a year-round stream that was showing signs of icing over), Michael could see the owner of his favorite hot dog and pretzel cart struggling with the cart's umbrella — its red, yellow, and green stripes a muddy blur and the whole thing in danger of helicoptering away in the wind. Michael trotted over and helped him tie the umbrella down, and the grateful man bought him a pretzel.
Michael took a seat on a nearby stone bench, brushed some of the salt from his pretzel, squeezed on a packet of mustard, and took a generous bite.
– A rustle in the bushes startled him. He stood and turned toward the sound, swallowing his mouthful whole. Unnerved, he pushed some leaves aside and was surprised to see a boy kneeling in the dirt.
Aaron was still in shock; he wasn't sure where he was or what he was doing there. He tried to crawl away, but a granite wall blocked his escape. Michael caught him by the arm, easily overpowering him.
'Easy there, cowboy,' Michael said, lifting Aaron to his feet. 'Aren't we a little old for hide-and-seek?'
Aaron was unable to find the humor in that. His mouth and chin were caked with blood, as were the strings of brown hair falling over his eyes. His sweatshirt and jeans were filthy and torn, revealing numerous cuts and bruises. He glanced around wildly, breathing rapidly through his nostrils. A thread of blood flowed from a purple gash across his left cheek bone, and he was very cold.
Michael eased his grip slightly. He could smell sweat, and fear. 'What in God's name happened to you?' he said. 'You're a mess
… your cheek, it's — '
Aaron turned away and winced in pain as he wiped his face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, leaving a dark red streak on the gray fabric.
Michael was genuinely concerned for the boy. 'Here,' he said, gesturing toward the bench. 'Sit down for a minute… It's okay.'
Aaron looked around, nervous and frightened, shivering in the icy wind.
Michael saw him glance at his pretzel and said, 'You must be starving. Let me get you something to eat. You want a hot dog?'
Aaron didn't answer, but his face said I'd die for a hot dog.
Michael helped him to the bench, then removed his jacket and draped it over the boy's shoulders. 'Stay right here and don't move,' he said. 'I'll be back in a flash.'
Aaron pulled Michael's jacket in close around him. The bizarre incident in the cannery occurred to him now as a strange, aching nightmare, but in his gut he knew there really was someone after him. He continued to scan the perimeter of the park as he sat alone on the cold, stone bench.
– Michael returned carrying a steaming hot dog that overflowed with ketchup, mustard and pickle relish. He took a seat next to Aaron and handed it to him.
'My name's Michael,' he said, extending his hand.
Aaron cleared his throat and managed a response. 'I'm Aaron,' he said, feeling as if someone else had spoken for him. He shook Michael's hand with a grip that was limp and clammy.
Like a cold, dead fish, Michael thought, discreetly wiping his palm on his pants. It was obvious that the boy had been seriously traumatized.
'I know you're in some kind of trouble, Aaron,' he said. 'We should give your parents a call.'
' No! ' Aaron said quickly. He wasn't ready for that yet, and besides, Tom might be the one to answer. 'My stepdad and I had a fight, okay? And they're not my parents. I mean my mother is — but my real dad died.'
Michael knew there was a lot more to the story, but he took Aaron's hint and changed the subject.
'You live around here?' he asked.
Aaron thought for a moment then said honestly, 'I'm not sure.' Then he picked up the hot dog and bit off as big a bite as the pain in his face would allow, sending the classic American condiments squishing out from the corners of his mouth.
Michael looked over toward his apartment building. At street level, assorted signs identified small businesses that really had no business being in business. One of them had a small, green neon sign that read SALLY'S DINER.
'See that diner over there?' he asked, pointing.
Aaron followed his gaze and nodded.
'I live at the top of that building,' Michael said. 'Have you ever eaten there? At Sally's, I mean?'
Aaron shook his head and made a face that said Why would anyone want to? It looks disgusting.
Michael was amused by his reaction. 'If you think Sally's looks bad,' he said, 'wait till you see the cook.'
Aaron laughed a little, and it felt good. Michael felt better, too, having succeeded in lightening the mood.
'He's actually a nice guy,' Michael explained, 'and his food is surprisingly good. I say, if you don't get some greasy food in you once in a while — you know, to build your immunity — you'll probably die when you eat some by mistake.'
Aaron laughed at the offbeat logic. 'I believe that,' he said, nodding.
Michael went on. 'I work from home, so I end up down at Sally's a lot. Sometimes I go to eat… sometimes just to relax and get away from my work.'
Michael had grown fond of the little diner over the years and to him its faults were its charms. And besides, he couldn't beat the convenience: a two minute walk from his loft — including the elevator ride.
'I'm surprised you don't weigh 600 pounds,' Aaron said candidly, picturing a huge version of Michael bulging over a stool at the counter.
Michael laughed then smiled to himself as the boy opened up even more. 'Lucky for me my metabolism is still cranked,' he said. 'I hear that once I hit forty, things will slow down, and Sally and I may have to part company.'
Aaron smiled then finished the last few bites of his food with enthusiasm.
Michael tossed their wrappers in a nearby container and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
'Listen,' he said. 'I know I'm just a stranger, and this may sound a bit weird, but what kind of person would I be if I just sent you off into the night? I have the makings for hot chocolate upstairs and I thought you might be thirsty — and I guarantee it will warm you up.'
Aaron thought the hot chocolate idea sounded pretty good. But it was kinda weird. It was bad enough to talk to strangers, but to go home with one? 'Thank you,' he said, 'but I don't think that's a good idea.'
Michael had anticipated Aaron's negative response. 'Look,' he said, 'You have every right to be nervous. But it's okay. I could take a look at those cuts… and I have an arcade — or we could shoot some pool. Do you like pool?'
Aaron perked at that. He had always wanted to play pool. His real dad had promised to take him to play at the officer's club when he was old enough.
Look at your choices, he thought, glancing around again. You can sit here on this bench in this park, exposed to the weather, or a shot in the head; or you can go somewhere warm and drink hot chocolate
… and play pool.
Michael sensed a shift. 'A quick drink to warm you up, some first aid — maybe a game of pool, and you're on your way.' He put his hands on his knees and sat up expectantly. 'What do you say?'
Aaron's only other option was to go home and face Tom, and he considered it for a moment. But he decided
