Free The Boy in the Lot by Ronald Malfi Page A

that had hung above his head like a thundercloud since he had been told by his parents that they would be moving. His father had gotten a new job in a different state, and that meant leaving all of Mark’s friends behind. A cell phone was a grand thing—it would be his own little slice of independence—but what good was a cell phone if you couldn’t call up your friends and make plans? Sure, he could call them and they could joke over the phone…but in the end, he would just have to hang up again, and continue being friendless in their new neighborhood.
    Timbuktu looked up at him. As was often the case, Mark discerned a deep intelligence in the old dog’s eyes.
    “You’re my friend, aren’t you, boy?” he said to the dog, once more stroking the silken gold fur along the dog’s back. “You aren’t going anywhere.”
    His father swung a few duffel bags over one shoulder then slammed the car’s trunk. He whistled as he joined Mark’s mother, who looked up at the sagging motel roof and fizzing neon VACANCY sign with barefaced displeasure, on the curb. “We’re in Room 104,” he said cheerily enough.
    Inwardly, Mark groaned. His father was always in a good mood when faced with adversity. He wondered if the man actually relished the little daily confrontations—switching jobs, moving from one city to another, spending the night in some horror movie motel in rural Maryland. Not for the first time, Mark secretly wished his dad would get fired, just like what happened to Davey Hannah’s dad back in Spring Grove, only without ending in his parents getting a divorce, which is what happened to Davey’s parents. Davey was Mark’s best friend back in Spring Grove. They had gone all through grade school together, not to mention the Boy Scouts, and had even been on the same Little League team two years in a row. People even said they looked the same—they were both slender, tow-headed, freckled, cheerful—and once, in third grade, they had told everyone they were twin brothers, and had even managed to convince a few of their classmates. Mark figured they would have also convinced their teacher, Mrs. Treble, had she not seen their last names on her class roster.
    An eighteen-wheeler, all roaring tires and spaceship headlamps, blasted along the curl of highway on the far side of the parking lot. Tim barked at the truck while Mark watched it cruise past, its taillights glowing like demonic eyes before being swallowed up by the darkness.
    Mark looped two fingers beneath Tim’s collar. “Come on, boy. Let’s get inside.”
    He turned and followed his parents along the motel curb, Tim bounded obediently beside him. He passed lighted windows, their shades drawn, and for seemingly the first time noticed the other cars scattered about the parking lot. It truly was a miserable place; his mother had every right to balk at the accommodations, particularly since they had driven past several nice-looking hotels coming out of the last city. To Mark, this looked like the kind of place bank robbers would hole up.
    The room was only slightly better than the outside of the place. Drab walls, worn carpeting the color of sawdust, two twin beds laid out like coffins in the center of the claustrophobic little room. There was a TV atop a nicked and scarred dresser, though it wasn’t even a flat screen. Similarly, the telephone that sat on the nightstand between the two beds looked like something salvaged from an antiques shop.
    Tim emitted a high keening—a sentiment Mark could certainly relate to.
    So could Mark’s mother, it seemed. She stood with her arms folded while her eyes volleyed from one bed to the other. “They didn’t have anything larger than twin beds?”
    “Not it we wanted to all stay in the same room,” said his father, dumping their duffel bags on top of the bed farthest from the door.
    “Terrific.” His mother turned and peered at the partially open bathroom door. “I’m afraid to go in there.”
    “Cut it