Free Sleepless by Cyn Balog Page B

own, hefting the baby on her hip with one hand and grabbing the handle with the other. The old woman swats my hand away and grumbles something unintelligible. The young man laughs coolly and steps inside.
    I step into the well, climb the stairs, and feel a hand land firmly on my chest. An old woman with a stony face is at the reins.
    “Good day, ma’am,” I say.
    “Ticket?” she barks.
    Instinctively, I reach into my pants pocket, where I always kept my money before, all the while knowing what I’ll find there. Nothing. I haven’t had any money in a hundred years.
    The driver shakes her head and points out the door. She clears her throat. “No ticket, no ride.”
    Bowing my head in shame, I step from the bus and it immediately crawls away, leaving me in a swirl of heat and foul-smelling exhaust. Not to worry, I tell myself. This situation will soon be remedied when I meet with Mr. Harmon.
    For the next hour, I wander in the direction the young lady pointed in, until I come to Hart. In the meantime I see many indications that this isn’t the world I left. I’ve seen a fewmotor cars outside the homes of my charges, but I had no idea how omnipresent they were; they’re simply everywhere. Most seem to be congregating around a sprawling building, bigger than a mountain, with Walmart emblazoned on its front. I pass several people, but they all ignore my greetings; I hope that they’ll be more friendly to me when I’m wearing new clothes.
    The homes are less well cared for on Hart; they’re smaller and remind me of the row homes from my old neighborhood. In comparison, the houses in Julia’s area are castles. Perhaps I’ll fit in better here, I think as I walk along the cracked sidewalk to number twenty-six, a small duplex with a crumbling brick facade. I climb the worn steps. There are four doorbells on the front, between two doors. I press the one that says 2B . After a moment with no answer, I buzz it again.
    I wait for at least five minutes, buzzing intermittently. I wouldn’t normally linger so long. A few times, I turn back to the street, ready to leave, but then I realize there is nowhere to go. The thought makes me shiver, even in the sun.
    I’m relieved to see movement behind the dingy once-white lace curtains on the windows. I remove my hat and say, “Good morning,” as the door opens, but my voice falters when I see the individual behind the torn screen door. He’s a younger man than I expected, perhaps thirty, and he’s unshaven and wearing a partially open bathrobe, even though it’s after eleven on a weekday. His eyes are bleary, covered by a mass of black hair, and he’s holding a lit cigarette, the smoke from which billows out to meet me. Surely there is some mistake. “Mr. Harmon?” I ask.
    He stares at me, his heavy eyelids drooping over hisunfeeling eyes. I know that look; I saw it on my stepfather more times than I can count. Drunk. At eleven in the morning. Disgusting. Shades of that cramped one-bedroom apartment above the deli in Newark crowd in. Combined with the foul smoky air, the effect is quite smothering. When he opens his mouth, I almost expect him to sound like my stepfather. But his voice is his own, not as raspy, higher-pitched. “You’re that fellow.”
    It’s not exactly unfriendly; it’s simply stated as fact. But I’m glad when he opens the screen door and lets me pass through. Inside, the smoke mingles with the thick stench of an animal and the salty smell of urine. A cockroach scurries into a crack in the wall behind Mr. Harmon’s head. I swallow. “Yes, I’m—”
    “I know who you are.” His words slur together, but not nearly as much as I expect based on his ragged appearance. “I got the whole rundown.”
    He leads me up a narrow corridor to another door. Inside, the stench is more putrid than ever. We stand in a small living room with bare walls, threadbare carpet, and nothing more than a misshapen green sofa and a small—what did Chimere call that item?