6. Freya

I'm on second shift today, which is always my favorite one because I usually get to see Matt after school before I leave and I can get out of here by midnight, meaning I'm home by twelve thirty and can get some sleep in before I drop Matt off at school. As he gets older, I'm getting him to take the bus more often, though.

He used to be afraid of the school bus when he was a kid, believing that it was going to take him away and that he'd never come home. It got really bad after Mom died. That's when I started driving him all the time. Now he's a little older, he's a little braver. But I don't like to see him cry, so most mornings, I drag myself up after six hours of sleep and drop him off before coming home to collapse back into bed.

Today has been quieter than usual — still busy, of course, but by the time eleven thirty hits, I manage to pass Jackson's room, where he's still sat looking sorry for himself. As I stare as subtly through his window as I can, Doctor Brown comes past and does the same thing.

We share a look. "He's not got anyone to pick him up, has he?" I say.

Doctor Brown shakes his head. "Doesn't look like it. But he can't stay overnight; we don't have the space to spare for some rich guy moping about the place."

"I'll take him," I say without thinking. I realize immediately that I'm probably going to regret it, and not just because it means spending more time with Jackson. No doubt he lives in the exact opposite direction to me, so it'll take me three times as long to get home.

If Doctor Brown and Jackson both agree to this, I'm so getting Matt to take the bus tomorrow. It's not true to say I don't care, because I do, but I'm exhausted.

"You don't have to do that," says Doctor Brown.

I shrug. "Well, somebody's got to. It looks like he doesn't have any friends."

"Weird, but looks like it. You still got a half hour or so in your shift, right?"

I nod, and Doctor Brown leans in and winks at me.

"Get him out of here now. I won't tell anybody if you don't. This way, at least you'll still be on the clock for dealing with him."

"Thank you," I whisper. The relief of getting to leave a little early rushes through me, and I nod at him again before dashing into Jackson's room before anyone else can call on me to do anything.

I shut the door behind me and clear my throat to get Jackson's attention. He startles, his eyes flying open from the little nap or daydream he was having. I don't feel bad for disturbing him, even if he did look peaceful.

"Come on, get up," I say as I head over to the bed.

"Huh?" is all he says in response, blinking slowly. Maybe he was actually asleep. Whoops.

"I'm taking you home. Put your clothes back on."

He gawps at me, blinking hard as he takes in what I'm saying. But I don't hesitate for long enough to let him get any ideas. Instead, I pull back the covers and gesture pointedly to his pants that are crumpled on a chair. He doesn't complain, just gets up slowly and goes for his clothes. I turn my back for the sake of his dignity, even though it's nothing I haven't seen before.

"Okay, ready," he says a moment later, and I turn back to him.

"Cool. Come on."

I crook my finger for him to follow, and we walk with purpose down the corridor. Not wanting to be seen by anyone who might question where we're going, I weave us towards the back staircase where I sneak him out. Jackson gives me a look at the idea of having to go down a flight of stairs, but I ignore him. It's not really him I'm sneaking out. Doctor Brown might have given me the go-ahead, but Suzette won't be happy if she learns I've left early.

When we hit the exit, I look left and right to check no one's about, and then start marching off towards my car.

"Ugh, how far away did you park?" Jackson groans. "Don't you get staff parking?"

"I wish. No, I'm all the way at the back — but hey, at least your legs still work, right?"

He doesn't have a witty comeback for that. I bite my tongue to stop myself bringing up the two extra blocks we'd have had to walk if I'd left my car in that other lot. Somehow, I don't think that news would cheer him up.

I press the unlock button on my fob, and my little car beeps a welcome at me. Jackson looks down at it, but to my surprise doesn't comment on the size or age or general wear. It's not the flashiest vehicle by a long way, but it's reliable and gets me where I need to go. I can't ask for more than that.

We drive in silence, only broken by the radio and his occasional directions. At least it isn't a long way. Before I know it, I'm pulling up to a mansion with a pristine lawn and a long driveway, something that's a far cry from anywhere I've ever lived.

It's not that I thought he was lying to me about his vast fortune exactly — because he sure acts like he comes from money — but hearing somebody say "I'm really rich" is one thing, and pulling up outside their absolutely massive house is quite another. I can barely afford the two-bed apartment Matt and I live in. It's unfathomable to me to imagine living somewhere like this. This guy is luckier than he realizes.

Suddenly, I'm starting to panic that maybe he does have the sort of power he was mouthing off about and that I shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss him as a snobbish ass who's dramatic as all hell for the sake of it. Ruining me wouldn't be a drop in the ocean to him.

I pull up in front of one of the four garages attached to the house, shut off the engine and jump out to run round and open his door for him. "Let me help you inside."

"I'm fine!" Jackson snaps, but I help him anyway and make him hand over his key so I can unlock the door. I don't know why it should take me by so much surprise that his front door is as simple as lock and key. What was I expecting — laser beams?

He shoves his way inside and beckons for me to follow. As I do, I have to struggle to not gasp at the sight of the high ceilings and the real oak side tables. "Wow," I say lamely. "Nice place you've got."

All I get in reply is a huff. Then, as he flings his shoes away to the side of the door with a grunt, he remembers his manners. "It's late. Do you want something to eat?"

My eyebrows knit together in surprise, but then I grin widely. "That would be great, actually. I've been on my feet all day."

"Come on, then," he says, gesturing again for me to follow him through to the kitchen.

Honestly, I'm still getting over the different rooms all having different doors. Imagine having that kind of space!

The furniture throughout the house is beautiful, too — bookcases with polished glass, pristine cream rugs, and matching table and chairs. Everything is very expensive and very clean. He clearly gets someone in to clean for him. Just another luxury I wish I had.

But still, as I walk through the house, I can't help but feel like I'm walking through a show home, like this is some real estate agent's idea of what a house should look like — coordinated and minimal. It's lovely and aesthetically pleasing, but there's no sense that anyone lives here. There's no personality. There aren't any pictures or mementos, no bits of clutter lying around from trips or visitors. It almost looks like he doesn't know anyone, or that he hasn't been anywhere at all.

All this stuff he has, all the life he's lived, and yet he barely seems to have anything to show for it. It almost makes me sad.

Almost, because one thing is clear about him: he's a baseball fan. There isn't much in the way of decoration here, but what little he does have is all related to baseball. It's all merchandising — old jerseys and bats tastefully pinned to the wall, and framed clippings filling in wall space in a way only an interior designer could think to do.

And, it's all from the Prairie Dogs.

"You must like the Dogs, huh?" I ask as we cross into the kitchen, pointing at the single tea towel by the stove in the Philadelphia colors.

He turns to me, tilting his head in confusion. For the first time since I met him, a ghost of a smile passes over his face. "You really have no idea who I am, do you?"

I shake my head. "Should I?"

"Do you like baseball?"

"Clearly you do," I say, but he doesn't reply. He just keeps giving me this look, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "The Dogs are my brother's team," I explain. "I take him to games sometimes. He's fifteen. I guess I pretty much know the rules, but I'm not much of a real fan. Matt really loves them though — that's my brother, Matt. He's on the school team. It's his favorite part of the day, playing ball. It makes him happy."

I smile thinly, running my hand through my hair and coming to rest it on my neck, willing myself not to say anything else embarrassing out loud to this stranger. I already feel like I've given slightly too much personal information away.

"He loves them a lot, does he? Clearly you don't pay that much attention." He sounds weirdly angry about it, like he's trying to get me to understand whatever cryptic point he's making. He sighs, and continues like it's physically straining him. "Otherwise you would have recognized the star player right away."

As soon as he says it, it clicks in my brain, and as he gestures to himself, I gasp in realization. "Oh! Jackson Kerr! That's why your name was so familiar to me."

"Sure," he mutters.

"Yeah, you're the pitcher, aren't you? Number eighty-three! See, I do pay attention!"

With that, I grin hard at him, which only seems to increase his sourness. He turns his back on me and goes over to the fridge. "Look, what do you want? I've got a bunch of sandwiches and stuff. Just help yourself."

"Thanks," I say dubiously as he moves out of the way. He wasn't joking; the fridge is huge and jam-packed with enough food to last any normal person weeks. I don't want to look greedy, but I am hungry, and the wrapped sandwiches look like they could have come from a fancy deli. I pick a relatively small one, full of salad, not too messy-looking. I have to eat this in the car, after all.

I shut the fridge doors, and there's a moment of hesitation, like neither of us quite know what to say next.

"Well… I guess I should get going," I say. "I have to get some sleep in before tomorrow."

"Yeah," Jackson says absently, like he's lost in a memory. "Bye, then."

He doesn't show me to the door, but as I leave I can feel his eyes on me, watching. I have a thousand more questions — about why he lives alone and why he seems so lonely — but now isn't the place or time to ask.

As I shut the front door, I take one last look into the house, and it still looks like a hollow shell.

In the car on the way home, in between bites of sandwich — which is exactly as good as it looks — I think about what I'm going to tell Matt. He'll be really excited to learn that I met one of his heroes today. And maybe a little jealous. And possibly mad that I injured him.

Well, it's an excuse to see Jackson again. I'm not sure what he's going to think of it, but as I drive through the night, I concoct a plan. Jackson Kerr has no friends and he needs help. So I'm going to be just that.