Chapter 2 - The Cold Station
Toby looked up from his phone as the blast of cold air hit the register. His eyes widened slightly when he saw the prominent, middle-aged man in expensive clothes carrying a soaked, disheveled child wrapped in a designer overcoat.
"Uh... sir?" Toby said, leaning over the counter. "Is everything okay out there?"
"Call the police," Daniel said, his tone leaving no room for discussion. He walked straight past the aisles of candy and motor oil toward the small dinette area in the corner, where two plastic booths sat under a buzzing light fixture. "Tell them I have an abandoned child at Farley’s on Route 9. Tell them to send an officer immediately."
Toby blinked, flustered. "Uh, okay. Yeah. Okay." He picked up the landline receiver with shaking hands.
Daniel sat down in the booth, holding Clara on his lap. He kept his coat wrapped tightly around her, using his sleeve to gently wipe the melting slush and dirt from her cheek. Up close, under the harsh indoor lights, he could see dark purple shadows beneath her eyes. Her skin was stretched thin over her cheekbones, and her dark hair was matted with ice.
"Clara," Daniel said quietly, making sure his face was close to hers so she could see his eyes. "Are you hurt anywhere?"
She shook her head slowly. Her gaze darted around the brightly lit gas station, taking in the shelves of chips, the hot dog roller grill, the bright banners. Her stomach suddenly let out a loud, hollow growl.
Daniel managed a faint, reassuring smile. "Hungry?"
A tiny nod.
"Toby," Daniel called out over his shoulder without looking back. "Bring me two bottles of water, a carton of milk, and whatever warm food you have behind that counter. Right now."
"Uh, I got some chicken tenders in the warmer," Toby offered, his voice nervous as he talked into the phone. "They’ve been under the lamp for a couple hours, but—"
"Bring them," Daniel said.
A minute later, Toby set a greasy paper basket of chicken tenders, a small carton of chocolate milk, and a bottle of water on the Formica table. He stared at Clara with a mix of pity and discomfort. "Dispatcher says Sheriff’s deputy is on his way out from the county seat. Might take twenty minutes. Storm’s blowing in from the north, and the roads are getting slick."
"Thank you, Toby," Daniel said, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his money clip and sliding it across the table without looking at it. "Keep the change."
Toby took the bill, his jaw dropping slightly, before retreating back to his register.
Daniel opened the chocolate milk, inserted the straw, and handed it to Clara. She took it with both mittens, her fingers trembling so hard she could barely guide the straw to her mouth. Once she tasted the milk, she drank greedily, her chest heaving as she swallowed half the carton in a few gulps.
"Slow down, sweetheart," Daniel murmured gently, placing a hand on her back. "Nobody is going to take it away from you. Take small sips."
She obeyed immediately, lowering the carton and wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve. She reached for a chicken tender, taking a small, tentative bite, her eyes fixed on Daniel as if waiting for him to yell at her.
"Eat as much as you want," he reassured her.
As she ate, Daniel reached down and carefully unbuttoned the top of the dark green canvas coat. He pulled the lapel open, his eyes settling once again on the crude black ink written across the fabric.
NAME: CLARA. DO NOT RETURN. NO LONGER OUR RESPONSIBILITY. STATE CAN HAVE HER.
A deep, visceral anger burned in the pit of Daniel’s stomach. He was a man who understood numbers, contracts, and legal obligations. He had built Mercer Capital Holdings into a multi-hundred-million-dollar firm by understanding human greed, but he had never understood cruelty for the sake of cruelty. To write a message like that on a child’s clothing—to label her like a piece of broken furniture left by the curb—was a level of moral rot that sickened him to his core.
His phone vibrated in his inner suit pocket.
Daniel pulled it out. The screen lit up with his brother Ray’s name. A text message followed immediately:
Dan, Mom is getting worried. Dinner was ready twenty minutes ago. Are you almost at the house? Roads are starting to freeze.
Daniel stared at the text. He looked at the family he was supposed to join—the warm dining room in Columbus, the silver platters, the laughter of his nephews, the polished normality of a holiday gathering. Then he looked at Clara, sitting across from him in a dingy gas station booth, her unmatched mittens resting beside a greasy paper basket of gas station chicken.
He typed a quick reply:
An emergency came up on the road. I won't make it to dinner. Tell Mom I'm fine. Don't wait up for me.
May you like
He pressed send, turned his phone to silent, and placed it face down on the table.
Outside, the blue and red lights of a police cruiser cut through the falling snow, reflecting off the plate glass windows of Farley’s Gas and Grocery.
