Page 23 of Sparrow

And then they’re going to notice that I’m at Mars’ house. And they’re going to try to claim me.

A shadow falls over the sunny day and the people below me fade into the background as I follow that thought to its natural conclusion. Whoever took me is dangerous, and I’m sure they’re armed and willing to use violence. Mars and Orion seem like they know their way around a gun but that doesn’t mean I want them using that knowledge because of me.

I can’t have the kidnappers coming here and making trouble for Mars.

He’s already saved me, and what sort of person would I be if I repaid him by bringing danger right to his doorstep.

So I have to leave. I have to go back to New York, where I have a home and, in theory, protection. There’s no reason for me to stay here, anyhow. Now that I’m free, why wouldn’t I go home? It’s not like Mars is my actual family.

Not like I have any real place here.

Still, I step back up to the window and press my fingertips against the glass, marveling at the scene below me and soaking in the warmth for the sun. And for just a moment, just a half a second, I let myself dream.

If I wanted to stay, could this be a home for me, too? Could I fold myself into the town and become part of the community? Laugh with girls I knew and drag them to the bakery for my favorite treat? Make Mars and Orion take me to the diner for milkshakes and fries?

Could this be my home, if I stayed?

What would it be like to live in a place like this, where you didn’t have to pay for every piece of attention you were given? Where everything was warm and welcoming rather than cold and hard and forbidding? Where the people were actually happy to see you because they liked you, rather than because they were wondering what you could do for them?

I bet even the snow is warmer here.

I close my eyes and imagine it for a moment... and then I step back and put it from my mind.

Because this isn’t my home, and that sort of hope–that sort of dream–isn’t for girls like me. I have a place in the real world, and it doesn’t include Christmas cookie towns or diners where girls in poodle skirts serve milkshakes. That sort of hope just leads to disappointment.

And I know better.

I need to leave, and the sooner I do it the easier it’ll be. I’ll find Mars, thank him for his hospitality, and then ask for a ride to the train station. Or maybe down off the mountain. Back to New York.

Back to my father.

I gulp... and then I decide not to think about that, either. I have one job right now: Find Mars and ask him to take me home.

I won’t think about what comes after that.

And I certainly won’t think about how much it hurts to know I’m leaving this place, and the house itself, before I’ve even had a chance to settle in or learn the men who live here.

I shower and make my way down the stairs before I can talk myself out of it, my mind made up about what I have to do. The shower gave me time to think through it, and I’m more certain than ever that I can’t stay here. The men who kidnapped me will come looking for me, I’m sure of it.

And I won’t bring trouble to Mars’ door. He barely knows me, isn’t even really my family, and I’m not his responsibility. There’s no reason for him to have to protect me.

The memory of his words flashes across my mind–that I’m safe here, and that I can stay as long as I want–but I wipe it clean. He may have said that, but it doesn’t mean it’s the truth.

I haven’t done anything to earn that sort of loyalty.

I kip down the stairs and then pause at the top of the hallway, looking to the other end. Orion lives down there, I remember, and though the main part of the house is clean and tidy, not a shoe out of place, there’s clutter down the hallway. A stack of books sitting against the wall. Doors that are half open.

A single shoe sitting in the middle of the hall, like someone forgot about it and it hasn’t figured out how to get home.

Everything in me turns toward the hallway, wanting to go down there and see what else is different. That’s Orion’s part of the house, and I can already see that it’s more cluttered. More undone.

And potentially more telling.

The man himself is a mystery, and my natural curiosity wonders if I can glean more information about him from his things. Last night, he said only a few things, all of them directed at Mars rather than me, and it’s easy to see that he doesn’t think I should be here.

But he was present for the rescue, or at least helped to get rid of my guard.

Was he just doing Mars a favor?