My Hungry Friend

3. The Warning

The sun was setting, and the clouds simmered reddish purple to the west. To the east, where I was headed, the sky was already dark. I had spent five solid minutes disinfecting the prick on my fingertip, first with rubbing alcohol and then with hot water and soap. Still the tingling continued.

Mom's corner was a shadow underneath the old marquis, but not an empty shadow. A hooded face watched me from a lump of blankets. Those blankets were brown, I know that, but in my mind they're red. Like gums.

"Ma'am?" I said. "I'm sorry for earlier. I hope this helps."

I held out the fifty dollar bill, now wrapped in the hundred dollars that Tiffany had left me. I wanted to be rid of it all. To wipe the day off the slate and start fresh tomorrow.

Mom looked at the money. Then she looked—at least I could swear she did—at the Band-Aid on my index finger. Finally, she looked at me. Her eyes were as dark as the coming night, and terribly sad. "My sweet child," she said. "My poor, sweet child, there is nothing to be done now."

"Just take it. Please."

"What has been given cannot be taken back. By anyone."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It will."

I pocketed the money, feeling confused and frustrated and tired. Tired, most of all. As I turned to leave, one wrinkled and surprisingly strong hand shot out from her blankets and clamped my wrist. "Mind the cracks," she said. "Watch where you walk and where you reach, and never go any place you can't see into first. Even if it's in your own house."

While she spoke, a bottle fly crawled out of her beaked nose, walked to the cusp of her upper lip, and rubbed its black forelegs together luxuriously. The sight of it held me there. I did not feel her let go, did not realize I was free to move until I was already moving away, and soon I was on the green line bound for home.