Chocolate. With white frosting. With her name on it in blue.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY GABRIELA.
And underneath, in smaller letters:
AND JEAN.
“Come here,” Elmer said. “I want to show you something.”
He led us down the east hallway.
Room 12. Room 13. Room 14. 15. 16. 17.
And then a door.
Not white. Not marked SERVICE — STAFF ONLY. Not almost invisible against the cinder block.
Blue.
Like all the others.
With a number painted on it in white.
18.
Ezoic
I stopped.
Ezoic
Mark stopped next to me.
“You rebuilt it,” I whispered.
“Gabby and I did,” Elmer said. “Well. Gabby, mostly. And about twenty people from town. And some of the truckers who stop here every week. And the Methodist church youth group.” He laughed. “Took us six weeks. Every Saturday.”
He took out a key. A brass key on a wooden tag.
18.
He held it out.
To me.
“Will you open it?” he said.
I unlocked the door.
