2. 1994

BUNNY

It took four days to get into the heart of the city. I definitely underestimated how far New York was from my little shit town. I was confident I would make it in two, but then the storm hit. Protection is harder to find when everybody is scrambling to be safe under a roof. The shelters weren't taking any new bodies, and the local churches didn't have any spare rooms. The park was as good as I got. Thankfully, the tunnels were big enough for all of us, and the lights automatically turned on at sundown.

I waited out the storm with whatever food I had left in my sack. It wasn't much, but now that I've showered at the local gym and made myself more presentable, I can walk into this coffee shop and hopefully smile my way out of a muffin, maybe a cup of hot chocolate.

A little bell dings over my head when I push the door open. Most of the eyes in the shop stay on their papers or work, but the man at the counter, a handsome thirty-something-year-old with a shaggy brown undercut, notices me right away.

"Hi, welcome to Elm House Coffee. What can I get you?" he asks, his eyes instantly going to the sliver of cleavage peeking out of my army-green tank. I could've used my jacket to cover me up, but I'm starving.

"I don't have any money… Could I just get a cup of water?"

The edges of his slightly wrinkled eyes lift into a smile. Then, without a word, he reaches into the glass display, pulls out a steaming egg sandwich and a banana-nut muffin. He places them both on a napkin, sliding them in front of me before handing me a to-go cup of water. "On me."

"Thank you," I whisper with fluttering lashes, eyeing his name tag while taking the food and drink graciously, "Craig." It takes everything in me not to shove the entire sandwich into my mouth, but he watches me as he wipes down the counter.

"So, where are you from? I've never seen you come in here before."

"The tracks." It's a fact that most people would hide, but I come from where I come from. There's no changing that.

His light whistle expresses the shock that lifts his brows. "You're far from home. So what are you doing here?"

After wiping my fingers on the corner of the napkin, I lean forward, clasping my hands in front of my exposed cleavage. "I'm a model."

"You are?" Craig asks, his surprise tripling.

I pause before answering, savoring the thrill in his eyes as he looks me over. "Not yet. But I will be. First, I need to make some money for headshots and all that."

His head bobs as he listens, handing someone their order before uttering, "So you need a job?"

"I do."

He considers me for a moment, eyes losing their teasing, flirtatious glint to take on a more serious look. "What's your name?" It's instinct to offer the name everybody calls me, the little nickname I was given the first time I entered the system. At first, I thought it was because I came in with my pink bunny held tightly in my fist, but no.

"You are the cutest thing I've ever seen, so petite and delicate, like a little bunny." His name was Richard, and he had wandering hands when the room turned dark.

The name stuck everywhere I went.

"Bernice. My name is Bernice." Walters, but for whatever reason, I keep that to myself.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen." It's not too far from the truth. I will be eighteen soon…right after I turn seventeen next week.

Again, Craig ponders my answer, but without any proof, he takes my word for it. For the first time, I thank the heavens for gifting me the body it did. Typically, I hate looking older than I am. It gives men the impression they can look and touch whenever they want. At least this time, I could make some money from it.

Craig interrupts, halting my train of thought. "Can you make coffee?"

"I can't." Denise never let me touch the stuff, said I was alert enough as it was.

"Okay," he laughs, taking a five-dollar bill from a lady dressed in nothing but denim before handing back her change. "How about clean? Can you do that?"

"I am the best at that." I had to be, or Denise would whip me with that stupid fucking television cable she ripped off my first year there.

Customers cleared, Craig stands across from me and crosses his arms. Leaning forward, he stops inches from my lips, looking at me over the bridge of my nose. "Great. Why don't you throw your stuff back here and pick up a broom. These customers throw their shit all over the ground."

For a handful of seconds, I don't move. I remain sitting in my hunched position, my eyes never wavering from his kind gaze, even when he returns to work.

"What are you—You're giving me a job?"

"Why not? You need money, and I need someone willing to clean all the shit I don't want to. You look sane enough."

"I—Yeah. I am. Okay." I hop down from the stool I was sitting on, still somewhat stunned, and round the corner to drop my sack beneath the counter. "Thank you." I have the sudden urge to hug him, shocked that he would offer me this position, but I hold back and settle for a wide smile as I take the blue broom from the wall.

I don't want him to second-guess his decision, so I set to work silently, picking up trash with a smile and collecting stray mugs in a basket I found sitting in the sink. The tasks listed for me make the day fly. I came in here early this morning. The sky was still slightly pink from the freshly risen sun, and the wind smelled crisp and clean. The world was still sleeping, just as it is now.

Together, Craig and I close up the little café, making sure all the chairs are overturned on the tops of the tables and the register is clear of the money that belongs in the safe.

"You did good today," he praises, then hands me my sack of belongings with one hand while the other holds out a thick roll of cash.

"What's this?"

"Your tips," he reveals, pressing it into my slack

palm. "You wouldn't believe how many customers I got today. Apparently, I have good coffee, but everyone stayed for the pretty busgirl."

Blushing, I take the stack and shove it into an open pocket of my bag. I noticed the lingering eyes, but I just figured people were friendlier with coffee in their systems. Denise was. "So this wasn't a typical busy day?"

"Absolutely not."

With his hand sliding onto my lower back, Craig pushes us out the door, flipping the open sign to closed, before locking up. I zip up my jacket now, desperately trying to preserve my warmth before I have to curl up on the freezing tunnel floor.

"Thank you again, so much. I will be the best employee you've ever had." I walk away with the promise to be here at sunrise tomorrow on my lips.

"You said you weren't from here. You staying with a friend or?—"

I choose not to respond. The or isn't an answer anyone wants to hear. But he seems to understand my silence, offering me the couch at his place.

"I don't know you."

Inclining his head, he says, "I'm your new boss."

"So?" I retort, standing still as a crowd of bodies passes me on the sidewalk, "You could still be a psychopath who skins me in my sleep."

He laughs at that. "Yeah. So could you."

He's right, and yet, he still offered me a place.

And I still said yes.