Page 46 of Knox's Boy

The ride to the Starlight was a blur. The driver watched me in the rearview mirror but said nothing as I gnawed on my thumbnail.

When we pulled into the motel lot, the contrast was violent. The Starlight was a two-story u-shape of peeling stucco painted a color that might have once been peach. The asphalt was cracked, weeds shooting up through the fissures. A rusted pickup truck sat on blocks near the office, and a woman in pajama pants was smoking a cigarette on the second-floor balcony, watching us with dead eyes.

"Could you wait here, please?” I told the driver. His name was Allan.

"Mr. Knox instructed me to keep you in sight, if possible," Allan said. He also sounded worried. He was a good guy.

"You can see the door from here," I pointed to Number 12. "I’ll be fine."

“I'll be waiting, Mr. Florian,” he said. I nodded, grateful. I knew Kyle must be watching from afar, too, and the fact that I could never find him, even after actively searching for him, was very unnerving but also weirdly reassuring.

I grabbed my backpack, the new one Knox had bought me, leather and smelling of wealth, and stepped out. I immediately regretted having chosen that backpack. Finn would notice.

The air here didn't smell clean. It smelled of exhaust, damp rot, and burning plastic.

I walked to the door of Room 12. The paint was flaking off in large chips. I raised my hand to knock but hesitated. My fist hovered inches from the wood.

Inside that room was the past. Inside was the chaos I had escaped.

If I knocked, I was inviting it back in.

But then I remembered the wheeze in his voice. I remembered being six years old, holding a cool washcloth to his forehead while he shivered from withdrawal, him calling me his "good boy."

I squeezed my eyes shut, steeled my spine, and knocked.

"It’s open," a voice croaked from inside.

I pushed the handle down. It wasn't even locked. I took a breath of the foul air, pushed the door open, and stepped into the dark.

Chapter 22. Florian

The smell was stale beer, old sweat, and that scent of humans being sick. It was the smell of my childhood, concentrated. I gagged, covering my nose with the sleeve of my cashmere sweater. Which, on second thought, I shouldn't have brought either. Too expensive. He'd notice it as well. The room was dim, the heavy blackout curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun, but the bathroom light was on, casting a sickly yellow light across the floor.

"Florry?"

I found him on the bed. The sheets were gray against his skin. And his skin... God. It wasn't just pale; it was the color of old parchment with a terrifying yellow jaundice. His face was a skull. His eyes were sunken deep into their sockets.

"Hey, old man," I whispered, stepping fully inside and letting the door click shut behind me.

The carpet made a stickyshhhksound under my sneakers. The nightstand was horrible: three empty vodka bottles of the cheapest brand, a crushed pack of cigarettes, a row of empty bottles of vitamin water.

"You came," he breathed, trying to prop himself up on one elbow. His arm shook violently. He collapsed back down, gasping.

"I brought water," I said, my voice flat. I dropped my backpack on the one chair that didn't look covered in unknown fluids. "And I’m going to get you some food. No money for booze. Not a cent."

"Don't need booze, brat," he muttered, closing his eyes, and I hated that word in his mouth. "Can't keep it down."

He looked so small. He used to be terrifying. Now he was just a dying animal in a fucking trap he’d built himself.

I sighed, the sound loud in the oppressive room. "Okay. Okay, let's... let's clean this up. Drink water. And Gatorade."

It wasn't a rational decision. I couldn't exist in this chaos. Knox’s sense of order had spoiled me.

I started with the trash. I found a plastic bag and began sweeping the bottles, the crumpled tissues, the fast-food wrappers into it. The clink of glass on glass made me flinch. I stripped the bed around him, moving his frail body, pulling the sweat-soaked sheets out from under him.

"You're a good boy," he mumbled, his eyes tracking me. "Always were my good boy."

I wanted to vomit hearing him say those things, but I was quiet. I went to the corner store two blocks down, walking fastwith my head down, shoulders hunched against the wind. I bought saltines, Goldfish crackers, baby wipes, and heavy-duty trash bags.