The guy looks you up and down, then smiles.
"Maybe we can talk about…temporary employment opportunities in my office," he says.
He leads you to a cramped downstairs office on the far side of the house, then walks around you in a full circle like he's inspecting stock at a slave auction. But before you do anything, you have to extract some concessions. At least a cot.
"So," the director says, "you're new in town? You running away?" He adjusts his belt.
"Problem with my folks," you say. In the reflection of a locked curio shelf, you look haunted and insane. And dirty. This guy has bad taste. "So are you sure there's room for me?"
"I'm sure we can make room," he says, smiling. He's got lots of very small teeth. "Maybe if you—"
The door bangs open.
"Rick we can't find any—" A woman stares from the director, to you, then back to the director. Her eyes narrow, then she looks at you again and asks, "Honey, are you looking for a place to sleep?"
"Just a cot, ma'am," you say.
"Why don't you and I see if we can't find where those batteries got off to, huh?" the woman says. You follow her out of the office as she casts one last furious glance at the director. She sits you down on a cot in the corner.
"Just try to stay here until lights out, okay?" she says. She pulls a Snickers bar out of her floral-print muumuu and hands it to you. "Sorry about that. There's not going to be any talk, though, is there?"
"No, ma'am," you say, immediately unwrapping and eating the candy bar.
"Good boy," she says.
A roundabout solution to your problems, but it worked. You scan the crowd for trouble, but people are pretty quiet, and you've got your back to the wall. You close your eyes.
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