Slowly, Leelee is introducing me to the whole town. It starts with little errands, like the morning coffee at Wayward Sun, then smaller things around the lodge like taking extra towels to one of the cottages in the afternoon or driving her car down the block to fill up the tank with gas. Last night I picked up our dinner at the Epic Café. The older man at the counter smiled at me when I said my name.
“You’re Lee’s granddaughter.”
“Yes, Starlee.” I tried a pleasant smile. I had no idea if it worked.
“I’m Tom, the owner of the café and a friend of your grandmother.”
Tom had long, gray hair tied in a ponytail and a kind, still-handsome face.
“Oh,” I said, taking the container of food. Everything here was organic, freshly made and according to the long line every day, very good. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, Starlee, I hope you like it here.”
The truth is that I’ve survived every encounter, even the one with Tom’s dog Jerry that wanders the grounds without a leash. Other than Jerry, the only other dog I’ve seen is a small chihuahua nosing around the backyard at the Wayward Sun. Jerry is a yellow lab, friendly and fat, apparently spending most his days accepting leftovers from the guests.
There’s one thing I haven’t done again, though, and that’s climb my perch to watch the sunrise. And it stinks, because I liked the morning tradition. The first morning after our encounter I got up and peeked through my window. He was out there again. I couldn’t see the sunrise from my room but I saw the light cast over his face. Then he leaned against the side of the house and opened his book.
The following day is the same and I realize I’m being dumb. I’ve been here for a week now. I know my way around. There’s no reason for me to hide out in my room. There are dozens of places to view the sunrise. I just need to find a new one.
The quiet of the town gives me courage and I feel a strange sense of sureness as I leave the porch and follow the path to the road. I know where I’m headed—to the small overlook between buildings across the street. The outdoor store and the market hang over the cliff. I’ve seen the small spot between them that has a clear view of the lake.
As I cross, I notice a backpacker waiting outside the shop, he’s sitting on the bench, probably waiting for it to open. It’s five, but the store opens at six for early hikers and fishermen that need supplies. I pass him without a word, not wanting to break the solitude of my morning ritual. One person had already pushed me to a new venue. I didn’t need another to do the same.
The view is spectacular, way better than from my trashcan perch. The cliff is steep and there’s only a small railing to separate the alley from the space below. I watch the sun peek over the mountain and spread orange and pinks across the wide sky.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” a voice says from behind me. I jump in surprise, my foot sliding down the edge of the cliff. Pebbles fall with a clatter against the rocks below.
“Careful.” The backpacker stands behind me and reaches for my hands. I twist away, not wanting him to
touch me, but there’s literally nowhere for me to go.
“I’m fine.” I hold my ground. The man is too close to me, inches away. He’s young, dirty—not like most of the travelers I’ve seen come through town.
“I, uh, I need to…” I shift right, hoping to skirt past him, but he moves with me, blocking my way. “Excuse me.”
“Look, I need some cash. I ran out of gas back in Blighton and maybe you could help me out.”
“Sorry. I don’t have any money on me.” My heart pounds so hard and loud, surely, he can hear it. “Sorry.”
“What about back where you stay? You live around here? You have money there, right?”
His breath is rank and he’s so close I can see the dirt under his nails. He’s inched closer and there’s nowhere to go. Why did I come out here? What was I thinking? My breath comes out ragged and a million fears, a thousand anxieties rush through my mind, paralyzing my body.
He grabs my arm, squeezing, and I yelp, louder than I thought I could. He pulls his face next to mine and says, “I tried to be nice, but I need that cash, girl. I’m going to get it one way or the other.”
A reflection catches my eye and that’s when I see the blade in his other hand. “No, don’t.”
Blood rushes to my ears and I only faintly hear the sound of something crashing across the street—the voice shouting from a distance. The backpacker is there one minute and yanked away the next; hauled off by a figure into the street.
“What the hell?” shouts the backpacker, his body staggering back. I gasped for air, realizing the other person is the boy from the coffee shop. He’s physically dominating, rushing up to the guy, chest puffed and fists clenched.
“Keep your hands to yourself, asshole,” the boy says, his face twisted in anger. “You think you can force your way on that girl?”
“I just needed some money—no harm in that.” He holds the knife between them.
“Fuck that,” the boy says, lunging for the arm with the knife. He slams his arm over his knee, repeating the move until the knife clatters to the ground. The boy isn’t done, swinging his fists and catching the man in the chin. The backpacker stumbles, but anger fills his expression and he lunges at the boy.
A full fist-fight ensues and I’m completely frozen in my spot. Even though the backpacker is taller, the boy is strong, quick. He pounds into him with a mighty fury, like this isn’t his first fight and certainly won’t be his last.