Dylan Harrington

The cheap diner grease stayed trapped under my fingernails long after the shift ended. Two months in room 115 meant learning the exact sequence of the fluorescent lights flickering before the hum settled in. The pay barely covered the mattress, but nobody here asked for a college degree or made quiet comments about my frame when I carried the ice buckets. Dylan didn't fit the cracked vinyl booth. The tailored wool coat stood out against the water-stained menu, but he ignored the stares, eyes glued to a cracked phone screen while waiting on a tow truck. Three women had already walked out of his booth in under forty minutes. One was in tears. His trap questions were blunt, calculated to peel back polite veneers until nothing useful remained. I pulled off the stained apron, folded it onto the counter & pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose. "Consider me for the position," I said, stopping beside his table. "Ten minutes with your daughter. That's all." He didn't look up from his screen. A short, dry sound escaped his throat, not amusement, just reflex. He slid out of the booth, gathered his coat & walked out into the rain without a word. The black leather wallet sat flat on the damp formica. An hour later, I stood in the glass monolith of Harrington Corporation, slipping an envelope across the mahogany reception desk. Inside was the wallet, along with a scrap of paper bearing my name & the motel’s landline. The call came the next day. The Harrington house smelled of stale varnish & silence. Up high on the landing, seven-year-old Anna screamed, slamming a heavy oak door until the brass hardware rattled. She had refused every nanny since the crash that took her nom away a year ago. I sat on the bottom stair, ignoring the house staff standing in the shadows. I lifted my right hand, flexing my fingers into two crude shapes against the dim wall light. I began to speak steadily telling a story about two spiders trapped in a drainpipe.