One of the benefits of regularly clearing the Ortiz’s hotel is that I always have a room. Last night, I slid right off Marigold in their lobby, slumping to the floor and panting from exhaustion and pain.

  To his credit, the kid I’d rescued followed directions. Ran straight to the room like I said and gave them the password. No, I’m not writing it here. I don’t need you trapping them. The Ortiz’s might be morons but they’re good people.

  After Mrs. Ortiz locked the brat in his own room for the night, I collapsed onto the thick stack of straw and fabric, sobbing until I fell asleep.

  The heavy clatter of pans finally draws me from my dreamless sleep. I run a hand down my face and groan as I sit up, manually supporting my leg. The pain has eased to a more typical ache, maybe an indication of rain today.

  As I massage the muscle, I do a little mental math and consider who’s cooking. Mrs. Ortiz is sweet, bad at negotiating, and even worse at cooking. It’s Wednesday… Rufus should be making French toast with yesterday's bread. The very memory of the blueberry preserves from last time has my stomach growling . It doesn’t help that I rushed to save the kid without so much as a snack.

  I stagger to my feet, crack my neck, and force myself not to limp. Given Rufus, I doubt his parents will ever out me, but people can’t let secrets slip if they don’t know them.

  So far, the Ortiz’s have never questioned my desire to stay on the ground floor, assuming it’s due to some strategic advantage. Tells you how little they know about strategy against the undead. I walk across the hotel lobby and into the restaurant.

  I’m not sure what the vibe was before Mr. Ortiz moved in, but now it’s a big quilt of mismatched lawn furniture. His wife brings her green thumb inside, with planters full of vines and leaves that change every time I come back. Guessing they cycle the plants to make sure they get adequate sunshine. With the windows blocked, the candles can only offer a warm glow.

  The kid is so small, he’s nearly swallowed in the dim lighting, kicking absently as he carefully picks at his breakfast. One huge sleeve of his oversized hoodie dips in a red jam while the other hangs slack, covering his arm. “Good morning,” he says.

  “Morning.” I sink next to him on the picnic bench and rub my face. “Did they make coffee?”

  “The man said he’d be back with it soon.” The boy uses his fork to cut a corner off his breakfast before swirling it in the jam. Completely ignoring the knife on the table.

  “Hello, Anthea.” The slow, intentional speech of Rufus never fails to make me grin. He's the only one in the hotel who takes the time to say my name in its entirety. He has to break the syllables up each time and I appreciate the effort.

  “Hey, Rufus.” I smile at his blocky form. “Rasberry today?”

  His bulky head hunches on his overly broad neck. “The blueberries aren’t in season yet. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, no, Rufus.” I place a tentative hand on his arm, careful not to startle him. “I like the variety.”

  The boy watches us intently, his eyes shifting back and forth.

  Rufus offers a shy smile and hands me the giant mug he’s brought. A very faint aroma comes in with the steam, probably an older coffee one of their customers paid with.

  Hey, caffeine is a luxury, I’m not complaining. Besides, the brew is warm, helping my ragged throat relax with each grateful swallow before I give a deep sigh. “Thanks, buddy.”

  Rufus nods, dancing slowly from foot to foot. Looking between me and the kid. The kid wiggles in his chair, staring at his now-empty plate.

  I continue to watch the kid as I speak. “Yes, Rufus?”

  “He never said ‘thank you.’” Rufus nods to indicate the brat.

  “Oh, he didn’t?” I let the chill leak into my tone.

  The kid looks at me and swallows a large lump before looking at Rufus. “Thank… you.”

  The words sound awkward tumbling out of his mouth on top of one another. Did his civilization never teach him any manners?

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  Rufus' face broadens with his biggest, goofiest grin. “You’re welcome.”

  He lumbers back to the kitchen, letting the old metal door slap open and closed several times before it settles back in place.

  “What’s wrong with him?” The boy asks and he hunches down at my glare.

  I don’t bother hiding the irritation. “He just thinks at his own pace.”

  Part of me wants to toss this rude little twerp into the street, but I need the kid to get payment. Thank the gods for the high value of children in a post-apocalypse economy.

  If I’m lucky, I might even be able to watch his elders chew him a new one for exploring the mall in the first place. Then again, they might consider the trauma punishment enough.

  “No matter what pace Rufus thinks at, I better not hear another word about you being rude.” He opens his mouth but I keep going, “He certainly knows better than to explore an abandoned mall.”

  “That wasn’t my fault!” His voice gets high and petulant, his freckles swallowed by the irritated flush in his cheeks. “Jonathan never listens to me!”

  Jonathan must’ve been the little zombie I took out in the food court. “Well, he’s paid for that.”

  The kid leans his chin on the tabletop and sighs, “Yeah, he did.”

  Something in the gesture makes it all click. His lack of manners. The fact that he has not once lifted his right arm. That limb hasn’t so much as twitched.

  Before he can react, I grab his sleeve.

  “Hey!” He lurches away, falling to the floor. Stones fall from his pocket and skitter everywhere. He tries to pull away, the sleeve stretching between us, my fingers finding nothing below the elbow.

  The door to the kitchen bangs open, smacking the wall as Rufus runs out to us. Footsteps pound down the stairs in the lobby.

  “Show me.” I keep pulling on the sleeve, as empty as the promise of this gig. “Now.”

  The kid’s eyes widen. He keeps yanking, shaking his head violently.

  Mrs. Ortiz enters the room, announced by her heavy steps. She’s not a big lady, but she walks like she holds a lot of mass. Her husband is the opposite, a pudgy guy who floats on his feet.

  “Thea–”

  I hold up my free hand to silence her question. Mr. Ortiz starts his own sleepy grumble but she shushes him.

  “You’ve met their son.” I give the sleeve a more gentle tug. “They won’t judge you.”

  I overreacted. This kid has been judged and persecuted over this. I know better. But I need to see it.

  The kid squirms, looking at everyone. More rocks fall from his front pocket as he slides out of the hoodie, leaving it hanging limp in my grasp. Once out, every strand of dirty blonde hair is standing on end, waving gently with static. He conceals his arm, holding the bottom of the hoodie up like he has to protect some kind of modesty.

  “Please.” He can’t hold my gaze. “I’ll leave. I won’t make any trouble.”

  “Too late.” I pull the hoodie away from him. Under the dingy orange rags was a teal shirt. It’s a better fit for him. He probably grabbed the oversized hoodie so people wouldn’t notice.

  Mrs. Ortiz lets out a sad little sigh and Rufus hiccups behind me. Mr. Ortiz is uncharacteristically silent. They were expecting a bite, and the sad, terrible news that we had to put a child down.

  That would have been simple. Depressing but simple. This is a problem.

  It’s hard to school my features as I review his arms. The kid’s left arm is so pale the freckles pop, contrasting brightly with the tawny tone of his neck and face. He never lets it see the sun.

  His right arm stops at the elbow in a tiny bend with a partial, useless hand. What fingers he does have are short and stubbing, twitching but unable to bend or hold a tool.

  “Shit.”

  “Anthea…” Rufus scolds. “You never swear.”

  “I know, buddy.” I draw a hand down my face and sigh, “I’m sorry.”

  But I can’t think of a better word right now. Everything I went through yesterday, I barely managed to save this kid, and now I’m not even getting paid. Not unless I want to face my mother.

  Mr. Ortiz might be a loudmouth but he has excellent taste in whiskey.

  My head is heavy and my eyes bleary by the time he comes knocking. “Thea?”

  “Enter,” I slur. I hadn’t even taken a bite of toast when he offered the bottle, and it’s starting to show.

  He scoots in, his pot belly jiggling after pushing past the door. “He can’t stay here.”

  “It’s not like he’d eat much,” I burp out.

  “That’s not the point.” He plops on the floor, across from me. “Maria couldn’t handle the heartbreak.”

  I let out a long breath. “What am I going to do with him?”

  “No family?”

  I shake my head. “They dropped him at Westwood before he could even remember them.”

  “You could always take him back.”

  I chuck the plastic cup at his head. It misses and he glares at the amber droplets littering the floor before turning that cold gaze back to me. I squirm, trying to think of an excuse. “You’ve run your fingers to the bone to keep Rufus out of there.”

  “He’s mine. You just met this runt.”

  True but… “I know what that place does to kids.”

  We sit in silence for a minute, Mr. Ortiz rolls the cup on the floor using the palm of his hand. “What about Charlotte?”

  “She travels all the time and the kid won’t able to help her”

  “Well–” he draws his broad finger through a big drop of amber liquid, “Lord knows you don’t want him.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”