“Claresta won’t appreciate you walking in without knocking.”
Terah turned around. The bearded man behind him was large, looming, and unkempt. “Sorry,” Terah managed. “I’m new to the neighborhood.”
The light was failing and Terah didn’t cherish spending the cold night outdoors. His right leg still ached and he was exhausted.
“We don’t have a realtor,” the large man boomed, “but nobody’s in number 27.”
“I appreciate that,” Terah said, remaining cautious. “Name’s Cal.”
“Hagrid,” the stranger nodded. “It’s this way, Cal.”
With the light fading fast, determining the number of houses was impossible. “If I may, what’s this place called?”
“If you may? Where are you from, finishing school? Here we just ask questions. It’s Dickinsheet. And what brings you here?” His faux polite manner was mocking, but didn’t seem malicious.
“On my way west. If I— Do the authorities know about this place?”
“What authorities? The slave-drivers most people call bosses, police and politicians? Doubt it. I’ve been here five years and never had an official visit.” They had continued up the hill and had made a right turn on what had once been a cross street. “It’s a bit of a fixer-upper, but here it is. Take it or leave it.”
“Thanks, Hagrid. Anything else I should know?”
“Depends on how long you stay. All becomes clear in time.” With that the hefty guide turned and shuffled through the snow.
Terah watched him go and then tried the door. Unlocked. Inside was dark, but he remembered he now had a light. Pulling it out, he gave himself a tour. Fixer-upper was an understatement. The sky was visible from what had once been the kitchen. Not through windows, but the ceiling. The floorboards squeaked ominously with his weight, and he wondered if there was a basement to fall into. Probably once a tidy one-person residence, it was a compact four rooms. He stepped through the doorway into the living room, went through to the kitchen. Next to that was a bathroom, its smell revealing the house hadn’t been unoccupied for long. The single room that must’ve served as a bedroom connected the bath and living rooms. The chill draft from the kitchen was least felt in the bedroom. A metal bedstead, spartan and consisting of springs with no mattress, stood in a corner. Right now it looked like a five-star hotel. Using his pack as a pillow, Terah wrapped in his emergency blanket on the naked springs and fell immediately asleep.
Somewhere in the unread chapters of the night, a noise awoke him. Vaguely it sounded like singing. He fell back asleep.
Daylight announced itself through many holes in the ceiling. Reluctantly he used the bathroom. There’d be no flushing here and the lack of any interior doors meant the entire house would reek of waste. Thankfully the roof was well ventilated. The windows, he could see, had been half-heartedly boarded up. Some still had panes of glass, but the place was gloomy even after dawn. Not having anywhere to go, Terah decided to take stock of his supplies. He and Lindsey had added dry wood to his accoutrements, as well as cans and dry goods from her stash at the asylum. They’d reloaded a bit at the garage, so he had enough food for a few days. The smell in the cabin took his appetite, though. Mainly he needed to rest until his leg healed.
Suspicious of his neighbors, he knew that these were likely the most honest people he’d ever encounter. Being homeless himself, he realized that what society called “street people” were often those on the nether side of luck. He’d been a professor, lost his job after an administration change, and ten years of expensive higher education suddenly had become a liability. You couldn’t hide it on your resume when your job had been teaching in a college. Nobody wanted to hire a Ph.D. Too expensive. Over-qualified. Snooty.
The homeless had no pretensions.
Still, if he were to stay here awhile he’d need to try to block the cold air coming in. The temperature had fallen in the night, and the indurate blue of the sky suggested things wouldn’t improve during the day.
Apart from the bedstead the tiny house had been picked clean. He had no raw materials with which to cover the holes. If he succeeded the awful stench would be trapped inside. He had a few bits of clothing in his pack, but nothing from which to fabricate a mattress. Not sure of his welcome, he didn’t care to venture outside, although the temperature wasn’t much better in here. The floor had many gaps, revealing a shallow basement deep enough only to break a leg if a floorboard gave way. The living room had a humble fieldstone fireplace. From the look of it, the previous occupant had utilized it. He kindled a small blaze and stared into it, hands and feet held toward it.
Nature’s merciful olfactory conditioning eventually made the odor less offensive. Enough anyway that he could warm a can of black-eyed peas and have some kind of breakfast. What should he do next? It made sense to stay where there was at least shelter, perhaps until winter began to relinquish its squeeze. Hagrid—who was clearly using a nickname and who didn’t look at all like the one in the movie—scared him. Terah was on the smaller side, physiologically, and Hagrid was obviously not. As he stared into his small fire, Terah reflected on how most men intimidated him. Not exactly mousy, he could be brave and he knew to stand up for himself. Still, when it came to matching brawn to brawn, other guys had received better endowments. The same had been true when he was teaching. The Dean had been a six-footer. His unmarried stare, laced with celibate judgmentalism, had frightened Terah. This man held his livelihood in his fingers. No wonder so many people preferred to be self employed. His fear of other men began—
A knock at the door broke his reverie. He wasn’t ready to face Hagrid again. There was no pretending, though. Slowly he got to his feet, took a steadying breath, and opened the door. When his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, he couldn’t believe what he saw.
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