The Forest of Sleepers (Nowhere Book 2)

t h r e e : m o e ' s

"You need to get your head out of the rocks," she'd told him, "and start putting it up into the clouds once in a while. You'll be far more tolerable that way."

She'd been grinning when she'd said it.

He flipped through the book, only half interested in the stories they told. He wasn't much of a reader, which was a point of much contrition between him and Birdie, but he was fascinated by the ones with dozens of notes written across them.

If he didn't know Birdie, he would not have been able to make out a thing about her based on the poems she seemed to enjoy. It was confusing, to say the least, but then again, that was a good way to describe Birdie.

She underlined titles ranging from "Nothing But Death" to "Daffodils".

He sat for what seemed like a few minutes, but was actually close to an hour, pouring over the book and being transfixed by the notes Birdie had written.

It was as if he had never truly known her before now. On the page, she was brutal and real. Her heartbeat bled compassion and her tears were made of honesty.

It wasn't as if this was a completely different Birdie than the one Wyatt knew, as if she was hiding who she was or putting on airs. This was like driving a car for years and years and taking it for granted. It isn't until you look under the hood and see how many mechanics it takes to make it run that you really learn to appreciate it.

So it was with Birdie Penny.

He found that he was rather enjoying himself until a sudden jolt from the train made him lurch forward.

"Blast it all," he muttered.

Evelyn awoke with a start. "Goodness!" she exclaimed. "Has someone stolen my pearls?"

It was a long journey to Alabama, where the truck Oscar had let him borrow waited at the station. It was a four-hour trip back to Nowhere, and Evelyn was looking pale.

It was nearing eight o'clock anyway, so Wyatt decided to fork out the cash to buy a hotel room. He tried to find one that didn't look like it inhabited more rats than people, but in Birmingham, there were only four places to choose from.

Wyatt checked into a place called Moe's Motel and carried Evelyn's suitcase up the stairs to the second story.

The room smelled of mildew and cigarettes, but the sheets on both beds seemed clean. Wyatt was so tired, he could've slept on the roof for all he cared.

Evelyn appraised the space stiffly. "It's no grand Ritz," she said.

"You've got that right," Wyatt agreed.

He was washing his face in the questionably leaky sink when he looked up and noticed his mother standing just behind him, looking at him in the mirror.

"You look just like him," she said. "Older. Perhaps not wiser."

Water dripped down Wyatt's chin, a cold feeling blooming in his stomach. "You mean like Father."

"The eyes," she said, nodding. "There's desperation in them. Loneliness. He filled it with greed, the old miser."

The way she said it felt otherworldly. As if Wyatt were experiencing a memory instead of the present.

With that, Evelyn sat at what she might have thought was a vanity, but was actually a precariously tilting desk in front of a foggy mirror.

She sat, preening, for a long time before ordering Wyatt to rearrange the tightly tucked sheets so she wouldn't "suffocate in her sleep".