Page 9 of Hunger

I look at the grill. The prep counter. The ceiling. Every surface in the kitchen except him.

"I'm pretty boring," I say.

"I doubt that."

The way he says it makes the back of my neck go hot. I want him to leave. I want to tell him to leave. I do neither of these things. I'm twenty-three and he's a security guard and the food court manager who'd deal with a complaint is currently smoking in his office and pretending the world doesn't exist.

"Anyway." Craig pushes off the counter. "Just thought I'd say hi. Have a good night, Jenny."

"You too."

I watch him walk away. The way his uniform shirt pulls across his back. The slow, swinging stride of a man who knows no one's going to tell him he's taking too long.

I scrape down the prep area again even though it doesn't need it.

The rest of the shift passes. Dale emerges at nine and counts the drawer and tells me to lock up. He leaves before I do, which he isn't supposed to do, but I don't care. I prefer it. I do the last of the cleaning alone. The food court is quiet. The Muzak loops. The fluorescent lights buzz. I pull the metal grate down across the front of Mr. Burger and the wheels squeal against the track.

I let myself out the back. The cold is sharper tonight. The snow from yesterday has crusted over the lot and crunches under my shoes. My car sits under the working light, the rust on the hood catching the pale glow.

There's something on the hood near the driver's side.

I slow down. At first I think it's debris that blew over from the loading dock — a piece of trash, something the wind carried — but as I get closer I can see that it's been placed. Not dropped. Set.

It's a stone.

I stop a few feet from the car. The stone is small. Maybe an inch and a half across. It's dark, almost black, and even from where I'm standing I can see that it's been polished to a smooth shine. It catches the light from the lot lamp.

I look around the parking lot. The lot is empty. The wind moves a piece of newspaper across the far edge by the dumpsters. Nothing else.

I step closer to the car. I pick up the stone.

It's cold in my fingers. Smoother than it should be. The kind of smooth that takes a long time in moving water to make. When I turn it over, the back is the same as the front, dark and shining and almost perfect. There's no note. No paper. Nothing else on the hood.

I stay in the cold lot with the stone in my palm, and I don't know what to think.

Someone left this for me. Someone who knew which car was mine. Someone who knew I'd come out at this hour. The thought should frighten me. It doesn't, exactly. It sits in my chest, a question I don't have the energy to answer.

I close my hand around the stone and put it in my coat pocket.

I get in the car. The Granada starts, and the stone in my pocket presses against my hip through the fabric.

The drive home is the same drive it always is. Route 6, Maple, the neighborhood, the apartment complex. I sit in my parking spot with the engine off and my hand pressed against the outside of my coat pocket where the stone is. The shape of it is solid through the fabric.

The apartment is quiet when I let myself in. Lisa's door is closed. A lamp is on in the living room. Dee isn't here.

I don't turn on the kitchen light. I cross to my room in the dim wash from the lamp and shut the door behind me.

I take the stone out of my pocket and set it on the nightstand beside the lamp.

I shower, eat next to nothing in the dark, and come back to my room.

The stone is still there on the nightstand. Black and smooth and shining in the dim light from under the door.

I get into bed. I look at the stone until my eyes start to close. I don't know who left it, or why, or whether I should tell someone, or who I'd tell.

I sleep.

In my sleep, I'm aware of something. Not a dream. Not a thought. A presence at the edge of my mind, watching from a great distance. It doesn't feel dangerous. It feels like the softattention of a person who's been waiting for me to fall asleep so they can finally sit down.