THE FENS (The Runaway--XV)

EVERY TIME THE REEDS TWITCHED, Josh half-started, half-rose from the cold concrete bench, but it was only wind gusting over the fens. He waited for Nikko to come out. He didn’t understand exactly what Nikko and the other man were doing in the tall grass, but he knew enough that it made him feel sick in his stomach. He wanted to go home, but Nikko said they did not have enough money to get home. In one week he would raise enough money to get the bus back. One more week. It was his fault, for selling the guitar.

They had left the Holiday Inn at two in the morning, stuffing the blanket into a garbage bag, taking the soap, the thin face cloths and towels, the plastic cups. Nikko took him to an underpass and they built a nest—that was the only way Josh could describe it in his head—with the blanket and wood planks and a cardboard box scavenged from an alley.

Josh stared at the single yellow crocus pushing through mulch. Spring was coming. That was what Nikko said before the man came and they went into the fens. Spring.

The reeds whistled in the wind. A snowflake fell on the Josh’s cheek. He shivered, and waited.

 

 

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The 15th installment of THE RUNAWAY, a very long chapter in THE MINISTER'S WIFE, my novel under construction. To read more, go HERE. And, as always--thank you for reading my words! Peace...