Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
At least Bitsy is safe. That’s what matters.
I find a studio apartment on the fourth floor one metro stop away from Marjory’s. It’s a rundown neighborhood, but there are signs of improvement. There are dumpsters in front of a building down the street filled with old toilets and drywall—a sign that they’re gutting it for renos. The sidewalks are fairly clean, like someone’s spending time picking up the litter. The apartment building that I leased has working lights at the front door and the back, but there’s no elevator. That’s why the five-story walk-up is cheap enough for me to afford.
“What do you think?” I ask Bitsy as I lead her into the apartment.
“It’s really nice.” She spins around, taking the small space in. Near the window, I have our two sleeping bags set close to each other. I bought us air mattresses, too, so that we’re not sleeping on the floor.
“This one is yours.” I point to the sleeping bag next to two pink crates. “And this is mine. We don’t have a TV, but I did get you this.” I pull out a computer tablet. The guy who sold me the fake IDs threw this in for fifty bucks. It’s got a crack on the upper right corner, but it works. I figured Bitsy wouldn’t care.
By the size of her big eyes as she cradles the tablet in her hands, I guessed right. A strange feeling of pride fills me, and I start showing off all the other sh—stuff I bought.
“I got you a pair of shoes, socks, other stuff.” The weird feeling I had picking out these little girl items in the thrift store leaves me as she excitedly digs through everything.
“This? All mine?” she asks, as she examines the contents of the crates.
“Yup.” I sit down on my air mattress.
She flings herself at me, as I expected. Tears wet my neck as she rubs her face against my shoulder. I’m assuming that she’s crying because she’s happy. This time when I pat her, it’s not so awkward. I’m getting used to her throwing herself into my arms. Her thin frame is starting to fill out. I’m going to have to start lifting more flour bags at Marjory’s if she gets much bigger.
Speaking of food, I push to my feet and carry her over to the refrigerator. Gently, I set her by my side. “Got some food, too.”
She shakes her head in wonder. “I won’t eat much.”
“Eat whatever you want. I bought it for both of us. Should we have a sandwich?”
She nods enthusiastically.
“Grab the bread.” I nod toward the loaf on the counter. “What do you want on your sandwich? Cheese? Mayo? Mustard?”
She taps her chin. “I like butter?” Her voice ends in a question, as if she’s not sure.
I unscrew the top of the mustard. “Stick your finger in.”
Tentatively, she does as I say and then dabs a tiny bit of the yellow stuff onto the tip of her tongue.
“Eww.” She screws up her face and makes little spitting noises.
I laugh my head off. “No mustard, then.”
In the end, she gets butter, ham and cheese. I layer mine with mustard, mayo, ham, cheese and butter. She watches me carefully, as if she thinks she’s going to be tested later on how one of these suckers gets made. I add extra ham for both of us. The sandwiches are so thick we can barely get our hands or mouths around them. After dinner, we wash the dishes, dry them, and stack them away. I show her how the locks work and then give her a phone.
“This is for you to contact me in case of an emergency. Press this button.” The device only has four buttons. I programmed all four to ring me.
“Okay.” She tucks it carefully by her pillow and picks up her tablet. “Will you watch a cartoon with me?”
I check the time. Beefer wants to see me at eight and it’s six now. “Sure. I’ve got some time.”
We lie on her mattress and watch The Powerpuff Girls on YouTube. Bitsy seems to love it. As for me…well, I don’t hate it. After three episodes, though, the alarm on my phone goes off.
“Time for me to go,” I tell her. “I’ve got to go to work. Can you tell me the safety rules?”
“No strangers. Don’t open the door. Stay away from the windows.” She ticks them off on her small fingers.
“Good. I’ll be gone until late. Don’t watch too much on the tablet. The internet is full of sh—stuff that’s bad for you.”
“I won’t. I’ll be good.”
“I know you will.”
“Be safe, Leka,” she says as the door closes.
I wait outside, listening as she drags a folding chair over to the door, slips the chain lock into place. I knock twice, and she returns it, telling me I can leave.