I'll Stop the World (64)

“What’s manure?”

“Animal poop.”

Karl laughs. “That’s not a job.”

“It totally is. Some people get out of bed every morning to go inspect poop.” Thanks, YouTube, for that horrifying nugget of knowledge.

“Why?”

“Some people use it for, like, gardening and stuff.”

Karl’s eyes get wide. “So when everything smells bad after the gardeners come, that’s because they used poop?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Gross.” Karl laughs, looking delighted.

We spend the next few minutes coming up with more jobs worse than school: sewer cleaner, maggot farmer, and the person who cleans vomit off roller coasters all make the cut, until it seems like Karl has mostly put the incident in the alley behind him. He becomes more animated as we walk, moving on to talk about his favorite comic book (Spider-Man) and movie (E.T.). I get the impression that this is a kid without many—or possibly any—friends, and that he doesn’t get the opportunity to talk about the stuff he likes with an actual human being very often. I don’t weigh in much, but just nodding along and adding the occasional oh wow seems to be enough for him.

He’s so absorbed in what he’s talking about that he doesn’t even seem to be aware of his surroundings until I turn his bike into Mrs. Hanley’s driveway. He freezes on the sidewalk, his eyes suddenly wide as his gaze jumps between the house and the burned garage, the police tape lightly flapping in the breeze.

“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the house. “This is where I’m staying.”

“I—I just remembered I have to go help my mom with something,” Karl stammers, edging backward on the sidewalk. His round face is pale.

“Hey, it’s fine,” I say, trying to sound more reassuring than annoyed. “Let’s just get some ice for your wrist.”

“That’s okay,” he says, already turning away from me. “It actually doesn’t hurt that bad.”

He’s clearly lying; his wrist is obviously swollen and turning an ugly shade of purple. He’ll be lucky if he hasn’t broken it.

“But—”

“Thanks for your help!” he calls as he runs away, his voice already fading into the sound of his sneakers smacking the sidewalk.

I’m so surprised by Karl’s abrupt departure that it takes me a second to realize I’ve still got his bike. I call after him, but either he doesn’t hear me or he just doesn’t care, as he sprints back up the street, running like he’s being pursued by something horrible only he can see.





Chapter Thirty-Eight


ROSE

“But . . . I don’t understand,” Rose said, her head swiveling between her father and Diane as they sat across the table from her, wearing matching unyielding expressions. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He lied to the police, honey,” Diane said, her eyes skirting briefly to her husband before jumping back to Rose.

“You can see why we’re concerned,” her father added.

“That was just a misunderstanding,” Rose said.

“How did Deputy Gibson misunderstand?” Diane asked. “Did he or did he not say he was your cousin?”

“I said that, not him,” Rose said. “And just because that officer was being really mean. I thought if I said we were related, he’d be more likely to leave us alone.”

“Then show us the letters,” her father said.

Rose stared at him blankly.

“The letters he wrote to you,” her father clarified. “You told Deputy Gibson he was your cousin because you were scared, but he’s really your pen pal, right? Which means you have letters from him. Go get them and show them to us.”

“They’re—they’re private,” Rose stammered, her heart racing.

Her father frowned. “I thought I raised you better than to lie to us.”

“I’m not—”

He held up a hand, cutting her off. “Do not make this worse, Rose.”

“We just want the truth,” Diane added.

Rose’s mind spun frantically. She couldn’t think of anything to say. She couldn’t tell them the truth, but she couldn’t lie either.

“He didn’t have anywhere else to go,” she said finally. “I wanted to help him. Isn’t that why you’re running for mayor? To help people?”

“That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t. You told us that you saw a need and wanted to do something about it,” Rose argued. “Well, so did I. I met someone who needed help, and I helped him. He didn’t hurt anyone. He didn’t break any laws. He just needed help.”

“If he needs help, there are ways we can help him,” Diane said. “There are programs—”

“He doesn’t need a program.”

“Or there is a wonderful homeless ministry down at—”

“He’s not homeless either. You don’t understand!”

“We’re trying to understand, Rose, but you still haven’t given us any—”

“If you would just believe me that I know what I’m doing—”

“Rose,” her father cut in sharply, “stop interrupting your mother.”