this corner of the world. She stepped ahead, moving with the line inside.
The room was packed, not a seat in sight, hollow-eyed survivors filling the space and eating the boxed meals with a dazed-automaton motion. Even the small stage to her side was crammed with people eating while sitting on the floor around an old upright piano.
Her feet stilled. “The children break my heart the most. They should be playing outside, singing in music class”—she skimmed her hand along bins of stacked instruments on the steps leading up—“or even grousing about a spelling test.”
“The kids are always the hardest.” He scooped a guitar from an open case.
“You play?”
“I do.” He slid the strap over his head. His fingers worked along the strings as he twisted the tuning pegs.
Heads turned in his direction in a wave of increasing attention. One child, then two, then small clusters, moved toward him. He grimaced, before shooting her a wry grin. He shifted from tuning to a song. Before she could process the shift in him , Hugh was strumming through “Be Kind to Your Web-Footed Friends.”
Surprise tingled through her. When children looked up and began migrating toward him, he started singing. No self-consciousness. Just pure rich tones smoothing tension from the room as tangibly as a hand sweeping over a wrinkled sheet.
A small mosh pit of little fans gravitated toward him. He segued into “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” which should have seemed grossly ironic, except the children were smiling and clapping along. One of the nurses reached into a box and began passing out classroom instruments—finger cymbals, blocks, tambourines, castanets, and some rattles she didn’t recognize. An older man left his food to help pass out the instruments to the children, his stoop-shouldered walk growing taller by the second.
Hugh’s ease with the children couldn’t be missed or faked. Her heart squeezed, hard. Watching him with the kids, how could she not think of her own dad right now? No matter how hard she tried to push back memories of the way her father had betrayed his family, purely emotional times like this brought the loss crashing forward. Her father had taken that purity and exploited it, seducing her teenage friends.
Part of her trusted the world far less because of that. Another part of her couldn’t help but celebrate true honor when she came across that rare commodity.
Like now.
Clutching her boxed meal to her stomach, she turned away sharply. But with every step back to the nursery, she strained to hold on to the echoing drift of Hugh’s voice.
***
Liam McCabe had stayed in some nightmarish shit holes over the years, but as far as living quarters went on a scale of one to ten? This place rated a negative two.
A tent in a field would be better—not to mention more stable—than a beach cottage on a crumbling bluff.
Although considering that much of the region was currently homeless, he probably shouldn’t complain. As long as the two-room shack with a cracked foundation didn’t slide the rest of the way into the ocean before he finished taking his shower, he was cool.
He turned off the faucet, gathered up his toiletries, and tossed them into his travel bag. Snagging a towel off the stack, he swiped the inside of the shower stall down, cleared his beard shavings out of the sink, made sure he’d flushed the john. All three of his marriages may have failed, but he’d picked up a few friendly housemate habits along the way.
His exes may have been right in calling him an immature son of a bitch, but by wife number three, he never forgot to put down the toilet seat.
Now that the cottage bathroom was cleared, time to hotfoot it out so the rest of the team could clean up. The place had running water and a stack of semiclean bedrolls. Even if the hundred-year-old structure reminded him of a haunted house carnival ride. The floor shifted under his feet every other step as he tied the towel around his
The room was packed, not a seat in sight, hollow-eyed survivors filling the space and eating the boxed meals with a dazed-automaton motion. Even the small stage to her side was crammed with people eating while sitting on the floor around an old upright piano.
Her feet stilled. “The children break my heart the most. They should be playing outside, singing in music class”—she skimmed her hand along bins of stacked instruments on the steps leading up—“or even grousing about a spelling test.”
“The kids are always the hardest.” He scooped a guitar from an open case.
“You play?”
“I do.” He slid the strap over his head. His fingers worked along the strings as he twisted the tuning pegs.
Heads turned in his direction in a wave of increasing attention. One child, then two, then small clusters, moved toward him. He grimaced, before shooting her a wry grin. He shifted from tuning to a song. Before she could process the shift in him , Hugh was strumming through “Be Kind to Your Web-Footed Friends.”
Surprise tingled through her. When children looked up and began migrating toward him, he started singing. No self-consciousness. Just pure rich tones smoothing tension from the room as tangibly as a hand sweeping over a wrinkled sheet.
A small mosh pit of little fans gravitated toward him. He segued into “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” which should have seemed grossly ironic, except the children were smiling and clapping along. One of the nurses reached into a box and began passing out classroom instruments—finger cymbals, blocks, tambourines, castanets, and some rattles she didn’t recognize. An older man left his food to help pass out the instruments to the children, his stoop-shouldered walk growing taller by the second.
Hugh’s ease with the children couldn’t be missed or faked. Her heart squeezed, hard. Watching him with the kids, how could she not think of her own dad right now? No matter how hard she tried to push back memories of the way her father had betrayed his family, purely emotional times like this brought the loss crashing forward. Her father had taken that purity and exploited it, seducing her teenage friends.
Part of her trusted the world far less because of that. Another part of her couldn’t help but celebrate true honor when she came across that rare commodity.
Like now.
Clutching her boxed meal to her stomach, she turned away sharply. But with every step back to the nursery, she strained to hold on to the echoing drift of Hugh’s voice.
***
Liam McCabe had stayed in some nightmarish shit holes over the years, but as far as living quarters went on a scale of one to ten? This place rated a negative two.
A tent in a field would be better—not to mention more stable—than a beach cottage on a crumbling bluff.
Although considering that much of the region was currently homeless, he probably shouldn’t complain. As long as the two-room shack with a cracked foundation didn’t slide the rest of the way into the ocean before he finished taking his shower, he was cool.
He turned off the faucet, gathered up his toiletries, and tossed them into his travel bag. Snagging a towel off the stack, he swiped the inside of the shower stall down, cleared his beard shavings out of the sink, made sure he’d flushed the john. All three of his marriages may have failed, but he’d picked up a few friendly housemate habits along the way.
His exes may have been right in calling him an immature son of a bitch, but by wife number three, he never forgot to put down the toilet seat.
Now that the cottage bathroom was cleared, time to hotfoot it out so the rest of the team could clean up. The place had running water and a stack of semiclean bedrolls. Even if the hundred-year-old structure reminded him of a haunted house carnival ride. The floor shifted under his feet every other step as he tied the towel around his
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