Chapter 6: The Morning Knock
The light that crept through the motel window blinds wasn't the warm, golden kind you see in picture books. It was a sharp, pale gray that made the water-stained carpet look even more tired than it had the night before. I woke up shivering, rolled in a thin wool blanket that smelled faintly of old tobacco and motor oil. Across the room, Jax wasn't in bed. He was sitting on a folding metal chair by the table, staring out the cracked pane at the gravel parking lot. He had a cigarette unlit between his fingers, rolling it back and forth like he was trying to grind it to dust.
A sharp rap on the aluminum door frame made us both freeze.
"Jax?" a woman’s voice called out from the walkway. It was Martha from the diner, her tone tight with worry. "Open up. I know you're in there. We need to talk before the sheriff gets his morning coffee."
Jax didn't move for a long second. His jaw muscles clenched, a muscle ticking near his left ear under his dark beard. He looked over at me, his eyes heavy with a weariness that went deeper than lack of sleep. He didn't tell me to hide or stay quiet. He just stood up, his heavy leather vest rustling in the quiet room, and walked over to unlock the door.
Martha pushed her way inside before the latch had even cleared the frame. She was holding a greasy paper bag from the bakery down the street, but her eyes weren't on us; they were darting around the room, taking in the spare cot, my taped-up sneakers on the floor, and Jax's unmade bed. She let out a long breath that smelled of stale coffee.
"I brought bear claws," Martha said, setting the bag down on the laminate table with a soft thud. She looked right at Jax, her expression hard yet kind around the edges. "And county social services opens at eight o'clock, Jax. You can't just keep him in a motel room on the edge of the highway like a stray dog. People are starting to talk, and the boys from your club are asking why you didn't show up for the morning ride."
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I watched Jax's hands tighten into fists at his sides. He looked down at me, then back at Martha, his voice a low, rough growl. "They ain't my keepers, Martha. And he ain't a stray."
"Then prove it," she snapped back, leaning forward. "Because right now, you're standing on the edge of a cliff, and the wind is picking up."
