John Avery: Three Days To Die

Aaron looked around, nervous and frightened, shivering in the icy wind.

Michael saw him glance at his pretzel and said, "You must be starving. Let me get you something to eat. You want a hot dog?"

Aaron didn't answer, but his face said I'd die for a hot dog.

Michael helped him to the bench, then removed his jacket and draped it over the boy's shoulders. "Stay right here and don't move," he said. "I'll be back in a flash."

Aaron pulled Michael's jacket in close around him. The bizarre incident in the cannery occurred to him now as a strange, aching nightmare, but in his gut he knew there really was someone after him. He continued to scan the perimeter of the park as he sat alone on the cold, stone bench.

– Michael returned carrying a steaming hot dog that overflowed with ketchup, mustard and pickle relish. He took a seat next to Aaron and handed it to him.

"My name's Michael," he said, extending his hand.

Aaron cleared his throat and managed a response. "I'm Aaron," he said, feeling as if someone else had spoken for him. He shook Michael's hand with a grip that was limp and clammy.

Like a cold, dead fish, Michael thought, discreetly wiping his palm on his pants. It was obvious that the boy had been seriously traumatized.

"I know you're in some kind of trouble, Aaron," he said. "We should give your parents a call."

" No! " Aaron said quickly. He wasn't ready for that yet, and besides, Tom might be the one to answer. "My stepdad and I had a fight, okay? And they're not my parents. I mean my mother is — but my real dad died."

Michael knew there was a lot more to the story, but he took Aaron's hint and changed the subject.

"You live around here?" he asked.

Aaron thought for a moment then said honestly, "I'm not sure." Then he picked up the hot dog and bit off as big a bite as the pain in his face would allow, sending the classic American condiments squishing out from the corners of his mouth.

Michael looked over toward his apartment building. At street level, assorted signs identified small businesses that really had no business being in business. One of them had a small, green neon sign that read SALLY'S DINER.

"See that diner over there?" he asked, pointing.

Aaron followed his gaze and nodded.

"I live at the top of that building," Michael said. "Have you ever eaten there? At Sally's, I mean?"

Aaron shook his head and made a face that said Why would anyone want to? It looks disgusting.

Michael was amused by his reaction. "If you think Sally's looks bad," he said, "wait till you see the cook."

Aaron laughed a little, and it felt good. Michael felt better, too, having succeeded in lightening the mood.

"He's actually a nice guy," Michael explained, "and his food is surprisingly good. I say, if you don't get some greasy food in you once in a while — you know, to build your immunity — you'll probably die when you eat some by mistake."

Aaron laughed at the offbeat logic. "I believe that," he said, nodding.

Michael went on. "I work from home, so I end up down at Sally's a lot. Sometimes I go to eat… sometimes just to relax and get away from my work."

Michael had grown fond of the little diner over the years and to him its faults were its charms. And besides, he couldn't beat the convenience: a two minute walk from his loft — including the elevator ride.

"I'm surprised you don't weigh 600 pounds," Aaron said candidly, picturing a huge version of Michael bulging over a stool at the counter.

Michael laughed then smiled to himself as the boy opened up even more. "Lucky for me my metabolism is still cranked," he said. "I hear that once I hit forty, things will slow down, and Sally and I may have to part company."

Aaron smiled then finished the last few bites of his food with enthusiasm.

Michael tossed their wrappers in a nearby container and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"Listen," he said. "I know I'm just a stranger, and this may sound a bit weird, but what kind of person would I be if I just sent you off into the night? I have the makings for hot chocolate upstairs and I thought you might be thirsty — and I guarantee it will warm you up."

Aaron thought the hot chocolate idea sounded pretty good. But it was kinda weird. It was bad enough to talk to strangers, but to go home with one? "Thank you," he said, "but I don't think that's a good idea."

Michael had anticipated Aaron's negative response. "Look," he said, "You have every right to be nervous. But it's okay. I could take a look at those cuts… and I have an arcade — or we could shoot some pool. Do you like pool?"

Aaron perked at that. He had always wanted to play pool. His real dad had promised to take him to play at the officer's club when he was old enough.

Look at your choices, he thought, glancing around again. You can sit here on this bench in this park, exposed to the weather, or a shot in the head; or you can go somewhere warm and drink hot chocolate

… and play pool.

Michael sensed a shift. "A quick drink to warm you up, some first aid — maybe a game of pool, and you're on your way." He put his hands on his knees and sat up expectantly. "What do you say?"

Aaron's only other option was to go home and face Tom, and he considered it for a moment. But he decided his bones were bruised enough already and said, "I guess maybe one game wouldn't hurt."

– The white van was parked near Sally's Diner, across the street from Creek Side Park. Needles and Beeks watched in silence as Michael walked Aaron across the street on their way to his loft.

Willy Abbott jumped off his bike and bounded up the steps to Aaron's apartment — leaving his beach cruiser to ghost down the block a few yards, where it bounced off a bus bench and crashed to the sidewalk.

Fortunately for Willy, Tom had long since passed out, and Aaron's mom answered the doorbell. Willy did a double take — he hadn't seen Aaron's mom in a while and had forgotten how pretty she was. He noticed a bruise below her right eye that she'd obviously tried to cover with makeup.

"Hello, Mrs. Quinn," he said. "Aaron's not home by any chance, is he?"

"Oh — hi, Willy," she said, looking past him into the street. "I was hoping he was with you. He left on his bike during dinner and hasn't come home."

She checked her watch. 9:45 p.m.

"I'm starting to worry," she said, and then her heart was lifted by an idea. "What about your grandparents? Maybe they've heard from him."

Willy shook his head sadly. "Sorry, Mrs. Quinn," he said. "They wouldn't know it if Aaron walked in the house and sat on the couch with them."

Ashley cringed. "I'm sorry, Willy," she said. "Aaron never tells me anything."

Willy wasn't surprised — Aaron never told him anything either.

"I'd better go," he said. "I'm sure he'll show up." He was fibbing about the last part, but he hoped like everything it was true. He turned and trotted down the steps.

I hope you're right, Ashley said to herself, watching him leave. She liked Willy — he was always the perfect little gentleman. She called after him. "If you see him, send him home right away, okay?"

"Will do," Willy said, then with a little wave, "Good night, Mrs. Quinn."

The ancient, cage-style freight-elevator rattled its way toward the top floor of Michael's apartment building. Aaron grinned as pipes and cables rushed past his face, giving him an exhilarating sense of speed.

"This old elevator sold me on the property," Michael said. "My dad had one in the mill where he worked, and he'd let me ride it whenever I visited."

The cage jerked to a stop. Michael pulled on an oiled leather strap, raising the wooden gate that served as a door.