Linda Andrews - The Meltdown

“Y-yeah.”

He draped it around the child, overlapping the front completely to hold it closed. “That should keep you a little warmer.” With string at a premium, he needed some duct tape. “Hold it closed until I can get you a shirt.”

“‘Kay.” His pink fingers pinched the edges.

“I’ll be right back.” Papa scooted the child between the pump and a brick column holding the awning over their heads. At least the kid would be a little out of the wind. He stepped off the curb and headed toward the Harley parked by the empty fuel tanker. He had a couple extra shirts in his bag. They were clean and he’d make do. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need anything much longer.

Rain pelted his bare head. Cold water sluiced down his neck and snaked down his spine. Fuck, it was cold. He jogged to the motorcycle and yanked on the bungee cords holding his bagful of belongings to the seat. The black hooks clanged against the sides then puddled on the ground.

“Don’t damage the bike, Papa.” Brainiac scanned the rooftops of the buildings across the street.

“Bite me.” Holding the bags to his chest, he eyed the beads of moisture on the leather seat. Maybe he should move the bikes under the shelter of the awning.

Lightning crackled across the sky.

Nah, they needed to be on their way soon. He spun on his heel and nearly tripped over his feet. His heart played his ribs.

Toby stood in the puddle not even a foot away. Water darkened the triple rolled cuffs at his bony ankles. His sandy-hair lay like dried apricots against his skull.

Christ Jesus! “Toby!” he shouted. “Get out of the rain.”

The preschooler’s lower lip shook and his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Papa Rose squeezed his eyes closed. Damn him and his temper. If God needed proof that these two shouldn’t have been placed in his care, that should have provided it. He’d made an orphan cry. What kind of low-life did that? He peeked through his lashes.

Toby hunched his shoulders and hung his head.

His silence was a sucker punch to a glass jaw. Fisting the bags in one hand, Papa Rose stepped forward and swept the boy up with the other. “Sorry I yelled at you. I just don’t want you to get sick.”

Thin arms looped around his shoulders. “You still my Papa Rose?”

No! Never! With tears pricking his eyes and nose, he stumbled under the awning. He tightened his grip on the boy. Just to keep him from falling. Nothing else.

“Sure,” he rasped.

Toby laid his head on Papa Rose’s shoulder. “I yike my new papa.”

Emotion lodged in his throat cutting off his oxygen. Black rimmed his vision. Set the kid down, get on your motorcycle and ride away. Far away. Where you can’t hurt anyone ever again . His feet carried him to the fueling island. The boy’s wet hair soaked through his black tee-shirt and warmth thawed the ice around his heart until it cracked. Memories escaped the prison he’d built—wet kisses, sticky hands, even the hardheaded wisdom of his clueless teenage daughter.

Ageless children in glass tombs. His to watch forever, but never to touch again.

Never to tell them that he was sorry.

“You cryin’ Papa?” Toby’s words sealed the cracks with the precision of a laser.

He blinked and his tears disappeared in the water running down his cheeks. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he felt it settled like a rock in the pit of his stomach. “Me? Nah. Why would I when I have you?”

Toby lifted his head and frowned at the ground. “My mama cried lots. It made her not so hungry, sos I eats her food.”

He sank to the concrete island before his legs gave out. Not even the finest medical care had saved his children. Nothing could. The disease had been too new, too unusual. He kissed Toby’s hair then set him on the ground. “I hope you’re not planning to eat my cookies all the time. Cuz, I have to say, I really like cookies.”

“Me, too.” Toby rubbed his belly. “I yike the choc’late chips bestest.”

“Chocolate chip, you say?” Setting his belongings between them, he unknotted the garbage bag. The scent of laundry soap wafted from the darkness. God bless those ladies who’d cleaned his clothes with boiling pool water.

“Yep. Choc’late chip.” The boy craned his neck to peer inside the bag. “I can eat two whole big ‘uns ‘fore my tummy hurts.” He thumped on his hollow stomach.

“That many?” Papa Rose dug out a pair of socks, two empty MRE bags and a flannel teeshirt. Setting the items on the bag, he peeled the jacket off the kid.

“How many do you eats?” Eyes narrowed, Toby spun around as he was unwrapped.

Was the kid worried he was going to steal his cookies? Then again, it wasn’t as farfetched as it should be. Others had stolen far more. “None.”

“Nuh-uh.” Toby crossed his arms and shivered.

He rolled up the tee-shirt’s hem to the neckline and tugged it over Toby’s head. “I don’t like chocolate. My favorite is the shortbread.”

The child’s scrawny arms poked through the sleeves. “How comes you don’ like choc’late?”

“Don’t know.” He released the shirt and the hem fell to the boy’s knees and the sleeves dangled past his elbows. “I’ve never liked chocolate.”

“That’s weird.”

He tucked Toby back into the jacket. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you my chocolate chip cookies and you give me your shortbread. Deal?”

Not that he had any intention of taking food from the kid’s mouth. Talking silly helped him remember this was someone else’s kid. As soon as they found another group of survivors, he’d palm the kid off.

“‘Kay.” Toby thrust out his hand.

Papa Rose stared at it for a moment before swallowing it with his big one. So soft, so fragile. It hurt to breathe. He pumped the lad’s hand once then dropped it. The boy’s whole body moved.

“Now let me see those feet.”

Setting one hand on his shoulder, Toby balanced on one foot and kicked the other at him.

He cradled the icy skin, slid the sock over it, then folded it back down, so the cotton doubled in thickness. Next, he shook open one MRE bag and slipped it over the sock. “Okay, put your weight on it.”

Toby giggled but obeyed. “It feels weird.”

“I’ll bet.” He rummaged in his duffle until he found a roll of half-finished duct-tape. Using his thumb, he found a neatly folded corner. He sucked air into his iron lungs. Miranda, his wife always ended the tape that way.

“Hows they ‘posed to say on?” Toby waggled his foot and the bag and sock slipped down.

Shaking off the past, Papa Rose ripped a foot of tape free. “You’ll see. Now put that foot down again.”

Toby’s face scrunched up. “Is it magic?”

With the roll end swinging like a pendulum, he reached into his boot and pulled out a knife. The blade sliced cleanly through the gray strip and the cardboard roll plopped to the ground.

“Gots it.” Toby hopped then crouched, catching it before it left the island. He twirled the circle around in his hands then used it as a chunky bracelet.

At least that would keep the kid busy for a few seconds. With one hand, he gathered the top of the bag around the boy’s ankle, loose enough to pull off but tight enough to stay on. Next, he wrapped the tape around the MRE bag, securing it in place. “How’s that feel?”

He looked up and his heart stopped.

With his tongue held firmly between his teeth, Toby folded over the corner of the tape. “All better.”

Beaming, the little boy held out the roll to him.

Get a grip. Lots of people folded over the corner. Lots . Slowly, his heart tried out a beat, then two. Finally, it eased into an galloping rhythm. Papa Rose ignored the tremor in his hand as he accepted the gift. “Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “How’s the new shoe?”