The Damsel

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Grofield opened his right eye, and there was a girl climbing in the window. He closed that eye, opened the left, and she was still there. Gray skirt, blue sweater, blond hair, and long tanned legs straddling the windowsill.

But this room was on the fifth floor of the hotel. There was nothing outside that window but air and a poor view of Mexico City.

Grofield’s room was in semidarkness, because he’d been taking an after-lunch snooze. The girl obviously thought the place was empty, and once she was inside she headed straight for the door.

Grofield lifted his head and said, “If you’re my fairy godmother, I want my back scratched.”

She jumped a foot, landed like a cat, and backed away to the far wall, staring at him. In the dimness her eyes looked as white as stars, gleaming with panic.

Grofield hadn’t expected that big a reaction. He tried to calm her, reassure her, saying, “I mean it. I’m stuck in this bed and my back itches like crazy. If you’ve got a minute while you’re passing through, you could scratch it for me.”

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