The Night Visitors
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OREN FALLS ASLEEP at last on the third bus. He’s been fighting it since Newburgh, eyelids heavy as wet laundry, pried up again and again by sheer stubbornness. Finally, I think when he nods off. If I have to answer one more of his questions I might lose it.
Where are we going? he asked on the first bus.
Someplace safe, I answered.
He stared at me, even in the darkened bus his eyes shining with too much smart for his age, and then looked away as if embarrassed for me. An hour later he’d asked, as if there hadn’t been miles of highway in between, Where’s it safe?
There are places, I’d begun as if telling him a bedtime story, but then I’d had to rack my brain for what came next. All I could picture were candy houses and chicken-legged huts that hid witches. Those weren’t the stories he liked best anyway. He preferred the book of myths from the library (it’s still in his pack, racking up fines with every mile) about heroes who wrestle lions and behead snake-haired monsters.