With a fresh cloth, he blotted the sweat from his eyes and then held the cloth to his lip. He poured the sugar packets into the plastic cup and filled it with water and drank. Refilled the cup and drank again. He changed the bandages on his hands. They hurt something bad. He stuffed the still-clean towel and the spray bottle in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

The door opened. A maid came in, carrying a bucket of cleaning products. She paused upon seeing him. She looked at the bloody washcloth.

“Sorry,” Jack said.

She stood there, one hand holding the bucket by its handle. “Are you okay?”

Jack coughed. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

He stepped forward to walk past her. She shook her head and put a finger to her lips. Jack stopped.

She stepped into the hall with the door resting on her hip and looked out. Footsteps. Jack caught the shape of a man passing by, so he slid out of sight. He listened. The man kept walking.

Silence.

She opened the door wider. She gestured to Jack with her hand. “Go.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “Thank you.”

She stared at him, frowning. “Do you need help?”

Jack swallowed. She looked like someone who cared for the people in her life. The look hurt him. He shook his head. “No.”

He said thank you again and turned and walked down the empty hall and out the door. Wind from the north licked his face, and pain tingled in his nose. He got in the Caprice and started it. He opened his backpack and took out the hotel towel and the bleach cleaner. He sprayed the bleach on the steering wheel and the door handle. With the towel, he wiped off the blood until no more could be seen.

All of a sudden he felt a creeping fear that someone was waiting for him in the rear seat. He jerked around and looked, but there was no one.

No. He was alone.

Alone, and he knew it.

He checked the clock. Quarter past three. He drove onto the road. At the Texaco he stopped and pumped five bucks of gas and bought an airtime card for the Tracfone. Three dollars and sixty-four cents left. He got in the Caprice and headed toward Matty’s school.

X

I think about the Ifs. The little choices along the way. Each choice leading to another. All of them pointing to an end.

If I hadn’t dropped my calculus book.

If Jack hadn’t picked it up.

If I’d stayed. That day, at his house. And not walked away.