Daze doesn’t come back. Not by seven, when Ben returns to the apartment laden with an obscene amount of groceries. It can’t be helped. Compulsive shopping is another one of my bad habits, in addition to cleaning. Hale used to rake me over the coals for it, mocking every outfit I purchased while Mom wasted away.
So much for embodying those selfless tenants of Covenant, Frey.
Sticking out my tongue, I’d counter with a bratty, Like you do?
To which Hale would roll his eyes. Always. I live for nothing if not to serve our father’s lofty ideals of perfection.
It wasn’t always a joke. Once upon a time, he meant those words. He wanted nothing more than to live up to our father’s expectations. Then, roughly a year ago, something changed. He spoke of our father only with resentment, and the sentiment was mutual.
At least now, I think I’ve beaten him when it comes to being the family disappointment. I’m still here, wallowing in my trip to rock bottom. Not by choice, however.
After dropping off the food, Ben warned, “I live right down the hall. He’ll be back soon.”
Apparently, “soon” didn’t encompass the couple of hours that passed since then.
Caring for a stranger’s son tends to put a lot in perspective, it seems. Eight comes and goes, but when Daze hasn’t returned as the clock inches toward nine, I have no choice but to enforce Lyra’s arbitrary bedtime. Sammy has a pair of fire-truck-printed pajamas and a toothbrush in his bag, at least. Bundled up in the safe blue sheets, I tuck him into bed.
“You’re my daddy’s friend?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I say, feeling awkward.
“Okay, good night, Ms. Lady. Thank you for din-din.” Before I realize it, Sammy’s arms encircle my neck in a sweet embrace. It feels so natural to hug him back.
Sammy lays back down and closes his eyes, ready to drift off.
And I could leave. I should. My cell phone keeps buzzing with incoming messages, from Colton, Father, and other members of Covenant.
But Hale will never message me again. The closest I can ever come to hearing his voice is running my fingers over the scribbled message on the back of a photo of me. SHE STAYS OUT OF THIS.
Out of what?
I doubt Father has the answers. Or Colton.
So... I wait. Long after the hours meld into the early morning. Long after my intuition warns me to call the police for real. When someone finally does shake my shoulder, rousing me awake, I lurch upright, sighing in relief. “It’s about time!”
But Daze isn’t standing before me.
“I have to go to school,” Sammy declares mournfully.
Tears roll down his chin, wetting the collar of his fire-truck top. He’s still holding Daze’s phone, which is on its last leg of battery life. The time flashes eight-thirty AM and nothing else. Not even a missed call notification.
“I have to be there by zero-nine-three-zero,” Sammy insists, his bottom lip trembling. “I have to.”
“Okay...” I stand and start to pace. Looking around the narrow room, I can tell that Daze hasn’t been home. Not once during the night.
Either he’s dead or in jail. That’s the only way I can rationalize it.
Those two scenarios don’t help me much now...and looking at Sammy wringing his pajama shirt in his hands, I don’t have the heart to call the police. Yet.
“Do you have your school clothes with you?” I ask.
Sniffling, he nods, and together we find a crisp white shirt and jeans in his backpack, along with clean socks and underwear. Apparently, Lyra didn’t judge Daze’s parenting skills too highly either because she left explicit instructions taped to the back of the school shirt, including the address.
The doors close at nine-thirty, she wrote. Nine-thirty! Not a second later, or he’ll get a demerit, and it will be on you. Don’t fuck this up, Daze! And while I’m on the subject, go over his spelling. Even in preschool, they have pop quizzes, and those fucking prissy teachers think it’s odd if a four-year-old can spell DAMN better than BEAUTIFUL. Love you both. Lyra.
Tossing the note aside, I help Sammy change and feed him breakfast, but he doesn’t look any less miserable.
“I need a lunch,” he says, his voice hitching. “I don’t have my lunchbox. I don’t want to eat a ‘special lunch.’ I don’t like bananas.”
“It’s okay. I’ll make you one. Don’t worry.”
Darting back into the kitchen, I find a Tupperware container in one of the cabinets and set about finding random things to form some semblance of a decent lunch. With a fresh pack of bread, I make a sandwich and rip off the crust—something Mom used to do. A juice box, apple, and a bag of chips form the rest of my attempt.
But it’s something.
“There,” I say, holding out the container to Sammy, oddly wary of his reaction. “It’s a lunch.”
He eyes the items with his mouth wrinkled, still sniffling. “Okay.”
Now the only other hitch is how to get him across town in twenty minutes. I head for the door and barge into the hall. Sure enough, a voice calls tiredly from two doors down. “Morning, sweet cheeks.”
“He needs to get to school,” I say, nodding toward Sammy. “Now.”
Ben sighs and glances at his wristwatch. “Fucking Daze,” he says loudly enough for both Sammy and I to hear. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s pray the damn thing can even get us that far.”