Her brown hair tangled and damp at the edges, her sneakers mismatched. One white, one gray, as though she’d grabbed them in the dark. Her blue eyes swept the room in a single, desperate arc, the way eyes move when they’re calculating exits and not looking for a friendly face. Nobody in the room moved. The two men at the bar turned slowly on their stools.
The woman in the denim jacket lowered her phone. Pete opened his mouth and then closed it again, unsure what the correct response to this was. Duke Callahan set down his bourbon. The girl’s eyes locked onto him for exactly one second on the patch, on the beard, on the size of him, and then she made a decision that no adult in that room could have predicted.
She crossed the floor in eight quick steps, dropped to her knees, and disappeared under his table. The bar held its breath. Duke looked down at the small shape pressed against the table leg beside his boot. He could see the top of her head, the rise and fall of her shoulders, too fast, too shallow. She was trying not to make a sound, and almost succeeding.
Her fingers were wrapped around the table leg like it was the only solid thing left in the world. He looked up, met Pete’s eyes across the bar. Pete gave a small, bewildered shrug. Duke reached for his bourbon, took a slow sip, set it back down. “You want something to drink?” he said quietly to the table.
A pause, then from below. Water. Pete, Duke said without raising his voice. Glass. >> He filled a glass and brought it over, setting it at the edge of the table without a word. Duke lowered it to the floor beside his boot. A small hand reached out and took it. Duke leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and looked at the front door.
