.:The Illumination of Sorrow:.

THE SWEET SPOT

The week at the hotel was much needed.

They spent most of their time inside, only venturing out to sneak leftover pancakes and sausages from the continental breakfast downstairs. When not sleeping they divided their energy between playing card games (Spades and Tonk), closed space exercises (Squats and Planks), and copious storytelling.

Olive spent nearly an entire day teaching Bean how to properly fold crimped sheets, and Bean instructed Olive on the principles of physics using a light bulb, several pens, three coffee mugs, a handful of paper clips, and The Book of Mormon he found in one of the bedside drawers. They even watched international professional women's lacrosse tournaments on satellite TV, which hardly ever happened.

They could almost ignore the fact they had a price on their heads.

They could almost pretend it was the sort of relaxing summer vacation all normal families have, minus the well meaning parental guidance.

Of course, the illusion was ruined whenever Olive compulsively pat the Huzuni tucked into the back of her jeans or tugged her nonexistent hair, or when Bean anxiously rolled his inhaler between his palms and scratched at the wispy teenage stubble Flossy used to tease him for.

They allowed themselves their idiosyncrasies.

And after a week at the hotel it was time to bounce.

Their extended stay came to a swift end when Bean broke the Unspoken Stealth Code and complimented a hotel guest on her leather jacket.

"Nice jacket. Very James Dean."

The woman grimaced before jerking for the sharp bulge in her jacket pocket. It reminded Bean and Olive of Malcolm X's assassination at his final rally when his killer screamed GET THAT HAND OUT OF MY POCKET! and shot the Muslim revolutionary to pieces.

Without another thought they hauled ass through the revolving door, their backpacks whipping on their shoulders like cowboys on prize winning bulls as they ran.

Still standing in the lobby, the woman stares after their retreating figures utterly bewildered. "What on earth?"

"That's right, and stay out!" The smarmy concierge mightily swings his fist at the fleeing kids as if he played a role in their leaving. He turns to the woman in the leather jacket, beautifully moisturized lips gleaming in the low light. "Sorry if they were bothering you ma'am. Sometimes the Urbs sneak in here and mess with good paying people. They'll do anything for a price, those people."

She frowns and shakes her head, her braids sadly swaying. "I was about to tell that nice kid with the shakes thank you, but when I adjusted my colostomy bag they acted like I pulling a gun on them."

The concierge primly adjusts his collar, noticing he's in well-bred company. "It's the criminal element. Death and drive by shootings are all they know. Nothing like you and me. Sad, isn't? Makes you wonder where their parents are. Probably dead, right?"

The woman in leather crosses her arms. "I don't think upbringing was the issue. They looked like they could take care of themselves... I just don't know what spooked them."

As she says this an Asian man ambles up to them, bringing the hotel lobby up to a whopping population of three people. He points to the door, accent blurring his words. "Did a bald girl and a thin kid just run out of here? I'm a photographer and I want to take their pictures for my collection." He holds up his camera in explanation.

"Yes, not even a few minutes ago...." She says. His brightly colored shirt is so tacky she almost wants to buy him a new one to save him the embarrassment.