Heart's Desire

Chapter 5 - Monty

When I was a kid, I used to watch cartoons in the afternoon. One time, this commercial about saving animals came on. It had just about the saddest music I think I ever heard. Between that and the little puppy faces and kitten tears, it broke my tiny heart, right then and there.

I stole my mom's credit card out of her purse and called the number on the screen, and tried to give a thousand dollars to save them all — which was the most money I could think of at five years old.

Lucky for me, the lady on the other end knew what a crying child sounded like, and asked to talk to my mom or dad.

They weren't mad. But they did get concerned, because I couldn't seem to let it go. I kept asking, over and over, if they thought all those puppies and kittens and rabbits and things would be okay.

And that was just the one commercial.

My dad said I'd grow out of it — that it was just a 'sensitive phase,' and I'd 'harden-up' as I got older — but that didn't happen. Even now I can't look at the news, or drive by a sad billboard, or read a novel without feeling something of the same way I did that afternoon, between cartoons.

Kit makes me feel that way, as he takes the bowl of steaming broth and the little pile of crackers I put next to it (I don't care what Ambrose says, I just can't equate broth and meal in my mind), with a mild meekness that makes my heart twist.

He keeps his eyes lowered, and his thin hands shake a little, and the shapes of his bones show beneath his smooth, olive-toned skin — clavicles and ribs, shoulder-blades and the ridges of his spine.

He sips the broth and eats the crackers like each bite is something to be relished, and his dark eyes hold a haunted look that doesn't belong in such a young, pretty face. I wonder how old he is, but I don't ask, not wanting to disturb him while he eats.

And as I study him, I see that his honey-gold curls clinging to the back of his neck are still damp with sweat, and there's dirt in the creases of his skin. He'd probably like a shower or a bath. And, for that matter, some clothes.

I busy myself selecting some — a t-shirt that's a little small on me, and an unopened pack of underwear from my emergency kit.

"You wanna wash up?" I ask, coming back to stand by the bed.

He nods without looking at me, lifts the quilt aside, and gets to his feet, moving with a slow carefulness that tells me he's a little unsteady, still.

"Where is it?" he whispers.

"Where's what?" He's still naked, and I avert my eyes, mindful of his modesty even if he doesn't seem to be.

"The kitchen. To wash."

He's still holding the bowl, and I realize he misunderstood.

"No, I don't mean wash the dishes. I mean you. Take a shower, get clean. You know — before bed."

"Oh."

The word is nearly soundless, and for some reason he looks terrified.

"Are you afraid of water, or something?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

"Okay, then. Here." I hand him the shirt and underwear. "All my other stuff will be too big for you, but I'll ask Noah and Julian to bring some things over tomorrow. You're somewhere between their sizes, I think. Come on, bathroom's through here."

I lead the way into the hall and down to the end, holding the door for him.

"Take your time, and use whatever you like — soap, towels." I point to each. "I think I got an unopened toothbrush around somewhere, even. I'll look for it."