Page 13 of Vandal Unbound

“In which case, missy, you should make the most of it and close your eyes. You’re wasting his effort if you lie here wide awake.”

Her eyes droop closed. “I wanted to say good night,” she says, sleepily.

“I know. But he’s probably a very busy man, so we should let him get on with his day…night.”

“Okay,” Elsie says as she sighs.

I stay with her for a few more minutes, rubbing her back in small circles until I hear the soft puffs of air that tell me she’s asleep.

When I get to the door, I pause and take a look back at her. If you saw her asleep, you’d never be able to tell all the baggage we carry. I wonder how much of it she remembers given she was three and a half when we left, and I don’t even know where to begin explaining why her father’s in prison.

She’s supposed to start kindergarten this year, and I want her to have a solid and safe childhood. Her father’s from Miami and always said that the rural communities of the Everglades were for weirdos. Why go on an airboat on a swamp when you can go out in the waters of the ocean with a speedboat? He’d mock them as uneducated. Call the people who live here weirdos. He’d spin stories about people disappearing forever in these small towns.

And while there is a slightly off-kilter gothic horror charm about this part of the state, I’ve found the people to be kind.

But knowing her father, he won’t have given up on us easily. When he first went to prison, he tried to pursue me for visitation rights, for access for his family. And the organization he worked for was big enough that any one of them could be out looking for us. So we’re taking refuge in the one place he’d never think of trying to find us, which still allows me to be close enough to my parents in an emergency and Elsie’s eye doctor who has always worked hard to keep Elsie’s medical costs as low as possible.

I think about Vandal down the corridor. I want to know he’s okay, but I also don’t want him to come back. A man like him has no place in my life…and yet, he made Elsie smile. To avoid thinking about it, I decide to occupy myself by tidying the now dry dishes from dinner and putting them away. The previous tenant broke the dishwasher; it’s one of the reasons Annie gave us a discount on the rent. And thankfully I’m just drying a littleTupperware when someone gently knocks on my door, because I drop it when I jump in fright.

“Daisy, it’s me. Vandal.”

I hurry to the door to open it, but not because I want to see him again. “You’re going to wake Elsie,” I say in a hushed whisper.

“Shit, sorry,” he says. “Just wanted to let you know that you shouldn’t have any more trouble with those guys.” He looks down at his knuckles and flexes his fingers as he speaks; I see the torn skin and blood.

I want to send him away. I don’t trust myself around men like this. I’ve made so many bad choices for myself that I can’t even give my daughter a good life. But he helped me out tonight. And it’s, for once, blessedly peaceful. “Come in and clean that up before you leave.”

The sound of a siren cuts through the night sky, and he looks out over the lot for a second. “I should just go.”

But as he speaks, the sheriff’s police car pulls into the parking lot, and I see Vandal look nervously in the direction of his bike.

Ignoring every better instinct I have, I reach for his wrist and pull him inside. “You helped me, I’ll help you.”

He follows me in. “Thank you.”

I lead him to the bathroom, where I keep all the first aid supplies. The space is small enough when it’s just Elsie and me in here. But with Vandal, it feels even more crowded. We stand side by side like those videos I see on social media, the ones where you use your phone to show what each other’s POV of your height difference looks like.

There’s a small stack of plastic cups on the side of the tub. Elsie still loves to play with them in the bath, and I love having something on hand to help rinse her hair. Our towels are white with little green frogs on them. They aren’t the thickest, but they dry fast and pack small.

“We should get your knuckles cleaned up,” I say, crouching to pull the first aid kit from the sink vanity. I rummage around for some antiseptic wipes, but before I can find them, he pulls off his rings, turns on the tap, and rinses his hands in the cold water before pumping some hand soap into his palms.

The guy doesn’t even wince as he soaps his knuckles thoroughly. I’d probably be crying by now if it were me. But I drop the antiseptic wipe because, well, I guess we don’t need it. Instead, I grab the antiseptic cream and some tissues for him to dry his hands on because I don’t want blood on my white towels.

“Give me the finger on your other hand,” I say, holding the tube of antiseptic cream. I try not to pay attention to just how thick his biceps are. They’re covered in colorful ink that’s beautifully artistic. I suppose it’s a cliché to think bikers would all have cheap ink. But this was created by a talented artist. There’s the portrait of a woman with black hair and a gorgeous smile. Beneath it saysLivin’ on a Prayer.

There’s a clock with a very specific time on it. Forty-four minutes past four, and the textAll she had was enough. There are bright wedges of limes and oranges. It’s a blend of dark shading and pops of vibrant color.

We’re close. Probably too close. He still smells like whiskey. And under the harsh ceiling light, his bloodshot eyes look worse than they did outside. But he has a gentleness that’s hard to put my finger on.

My history says I should be scared of him, but he isn’t giving me any reason why I’m at risk.

Without question, he does exactly what I ask. I hold his hand steady as I apply a healthy line of antiseptic to it.

“Thank you,” he says.

I tip my head in the direction of his other hand. “Rub that in across your knuckles.”

“Yes, Mom,” he says. But there’s the slightest bit of a wince when he does as I say. I get a closer look at his scars. Whatever this man went through, it was extreme. I love those late-night, real-life emergency shows where they show injured people arriving at the ER. I’m no surgeon, but I know they don’t cut your head open from ear to ear without good reason.