Page 5 of Never Never

I barely have time to see the wrinkles of her neck jiggle with laughter before I’m ducking sideways, crouching behind a waitress’s legs for a few steps in the opposite direction, and reemerging right at the swinging doors to the kitchen.

“On your back!” I yell, narrowly ducking a line cook swinging a sizzling deep-fry basket.

“Ay, cabron!”

“Watch it?”

“Fuck you doin’?”

“This isn’t the drive-through?” I scoot past a potbellied waiter with a surf-and-turf in each hand. “My bad.”

Next thing you know, I hip-check the exit door and I’m out.

Night air. Alleyway.

But not safe.

Not yet.

I take stock. Dark, dumpsters, cardboard boxes, smell of rotten cabbage and piss. Security entrance is around the corner, close enough to hear voices. Dead end to the left, twelve-foot fence to the right, and straight ahead…an exit.

A tunnel, to be precise, some steps down into a corridor that connects the back of the casino building to what must be the back of the dog track. There’s a chain-link gate blocking it off, but with a running start I can vault it, and that gives me enough of a lead to…

My ankles scream as I slam to the ground at the bottom of the steps.

Well, not escape, I realize.

Because as I bolt down the wet cinderblock chute, fluorescents flashing overhead, I realize that I’m heading the opposite of the way out. The dog track’s a closed system. You can get in this way—I guess—and through the main entrance from the casino lobby. Which means I might be better off turning around, but⁠—

“The track!” someone yells behind me.

…but too late. Made my choice. I pick up the pace and rocket out into the main drag of the track, a sad little viewing yard that sits to the side of the outdoor bleachers. Quiet, though, save my pounding feet. I round the corner of the building, figuring—well, figuring I can find some exit, somewhere, even if it means running through the goddamn kennels.

Instead, I’m back with the trash. More dumpsters, more crates. And, up ahead, people. Figures. With flashlights. At least four or five, banging out from the double doors that connect the casino lobby to the main path in and the ticket window, which⁠—

Fuck me.

Which means I can run, or I can hide.

I look around. Again. Dark, dumpsters, boxes, crates. Pile of trash bags, but God knows when my next shower will be, and smelling like shit’s the quickest way to get yourself kicked out of anywhere.

Dark, dumpsters, boxes, crates⁠—

A tent.

Same dark green as the dumpsters, tucked in between two of them with some crates stacked just so it’s easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. And hopefully empty. But even if not—run the odds, I’d rather take my chances fighting off a junkie than swan-diving into a stack of old needles.

So tent it is.

In two skidding steps I’m past the crates, crouching and tugging at the zipper all in one move. It’s warm, dark, full of stuff—no, not stuff, a sleeping bag.

And a person.

Who is now awake.

“What the f⁠—”

Blue eyes. Bright.