Evelyn

Garan sat nervously in the cold, dimly lit foreman’s office, his eyes fixed on the man in the suit seated across from him. The foreman’s desk, a cold grey slab of metal, created a barrier between them, as if to emphasize the bad news Garan was about to receive.

The foreman leaned forward slightly, his expression sympathetic but firm. “Look, Garan, you're a great kid and a hard worker,” he began, his voice tinged with regret. “Unfortunately, the feds are sniffin' around the construction industry, lookin' for illegals. I gotta let you go until things cool down.”

Garan’s heart sank. Desperation crept into his voice as he protested, “But I’ve worked here for three years. I have a four-year-old daughter.”

The foreman cut him off, not unkindly but with the finality of a decision already made. “You're not the only one we lost. I had to cut Boris and Jorge. They were the best workers I got.”

Garan’s shoulders slumped as the weight of his situation pressed down on him. The foreman noticed the shift, the sudden look of helplessness on Garan’s face, and sighed, trying to soften the blow.

“Ok, look, don't freak out about it,” the foreman said, attempting to sound reassuring. “These things usually blow over after a few weeks. I'll get in touch in a month, and we’ll see what we can work out. Just pretend it's a month-long vacation.”

The foreman stood, motioning towards the door, signaling the end of the conversation. Garan, dejected, followed the silent command, his mind racing with thoughts of what he would do next.

Outside, the harsh daylight hit Garan as he stepped onto the sidewalk, his lunch pail dangling loosely in his hand. He stood there for a moment, letting out a heavy sigh. The sidewalk was cluttered with makeshift tents, homes for the homeless who had nowhere else to go. Run-down, old buildings lined the street, some on the verge of collapse, and garbage littered the path so heavily that Garan had to watch his steps carefully to avoid tripping or stepping on something unsavory.

As he walked, Garan barely noticed a man sitting against a crumbling wall, holding up an old, dirty plastic cup, begging for change. The man’s voice was a garbled mumble, words lost in the noise of the city. Garan paused, numbed by the shared pain of their circumstances, and opened his lunch pail. Without a word, he handed the man a sandwich, watching as the man mumbled something incoherently before devouring the food as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

Garan continued on, his thoughts heavy, until he reached the street corner where a weathered sign reading "Dead End Tavern" hung above a worn door. He stopped, looked up at the sign, and pushed the door open, stepping into the dimly lit interior.

The music in the pub was loud, a heavy stoner rock track pounding through the dimly lit space. It had the raw, gritty energy of an unknown desert band on day three of a music festival, the bassline thudding against the walls of the narrow room, the crunchy guitar riff making the flies twitch as they wait for more food to hit the floor.

The pub itself was an old shotgun shack, worn and battered by years of neglect. The bar, a long, scarred piece of wood, ran down the right side of the room, while on the left, four booths lined the wall, their cracked leather seats illuminated by flickering yellow lights. A small stage sat at the back, barely large enough for one person, lost in the shadows.

The only significant light in the place came from a string of small white Christmas lights that traced the perimeter of the ceiling, casting a ghostly glow over the room. The lights above the booths gave off a weak, yellowish hue that did little to penetrate the darkness, and the lighting at the bar was so poor that counting money seemed like an act of faith more than certainty.

Two men sat in the far booth, their faces obscured by the shadows, talking quietly as they sipped their drinks. At the bar, a tough-looking middle-aged man idly ate peanuts from a small bowl and nursed a dark porter. He watched the boxing match on the television above the bar with interest, grunting in approval as one of the boxers landed a solid jab on his opponent's mouth. The bartender, an older man with a tired expression, kept one eye on the match while cleaning glasses.

Garan pushed open the door, pausing for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The bartender glanced up at him, waiting as Garan scanned the limited selection of drinks.

"Whatever's on tap," Garan said, his voice low.

The bartender grabbed a glass, filled it with beer, and set it on the bar in front of Garan. He placed a five-dollar bill on the counter, then walked over to one of the empty booths and sat down. He took a sip of his drink, his mind clearly elsewhere, lost in thought.

The older of the two men in the far booth noticed Garan and got up, signaling to the younger man to follow. They approached Garan’s booth, the older man wearing a smirk that didn’t quite reach his jaundiced eyes.

"Hey, it's my brother's birthday," the older man said, his voice slurred.

"Happy birthday," Garan replied, his tone flat.

"You should buy us a drink so we can celebrate," the younger man chimed in, his voice sharper, more insistent.

"Yeah, get a round of shots," the older man added, his smirk widening.

Garan, tired and frustrated, looked at the two men, his expression shifting from weary to stern. "Sorry, guys. I just lost my job."

The older man’s smirk faltered, replaced by a sneer. "Sounds like you need a drink," he said, sliding into the booth across from Garan. The younger man followed suit, trapping Garan against the wall. The stench of sweat and stale alcohol hit Garan’s nostrils, making him grimace.

The older man leaned in close, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus. "Look, kid, we’re just lookin’ to have a good time. Buy us some drinks, and we can all have a pleasant day."

"The good stuff," the younger man added, his voice dripping with a slurred menace.

Garan’s patience snapped. He stared at the older man, his tone now cold. "I’m not going to buy you a drink."

As soon as the words left his mouth, the younger man’s elbow slammed into Garan’s ribs, sending a sharp bolt of pain through his side. Garan grunted, the air rushing from his lungs. The older man reached across the table, grabbing Garan by the shirt and pulling him close.

Before the older man could say anything, a powerful hand grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him away from Garan. The man’s head collided with the wall, and he slumped into the booth, unconscious.

The middle-aged man from the bar stood over the older brother, his expression one of cold fury. The younger man, seeing his brother limp, jumped up from the booth, ready to fight. But the older intervener moved faster, blocking the punch and backhanding the younger man across the face. The younger man crumpled to the floor, knocked out cold.

The middle-aged rescuer turned to Garan, offering a hand. "You okay, buddy?"

Garan winced as he grabbed the offered hand, letting the man help him to his feet. The pain in his ribs flared, and he groaned, his left hand instinctively covering his side.

The man looked at Garan, concern in his eyes. "Looks like you got a bruised rib. Might be cracked. I’ll get the old man to call an ambulance while he’s calling the cops."

"No," Garan said quickly, shaking his head. "I just need to go home."

He took a step toward the door but stopped, wincing again as he clutched his side.

The older man sighed and put an arm around Garan’s waist, supporting his weight. "Easy there, huckleberry. Let me help."

Garan hesitated but eventually nodded, too exhausted to argue. "Where do you live? I’ll drive you home."

"You don’t have to do that," Garan said, though his voice lacked conviction. "You’ve already helped enough."

The man shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "It’s no problem. Besides, I’m invested now. If something happens to you, that means I roughed up these clowns for no reason. I’m Dan, by the way. My friends call me Buck."

"Thanks, Buck," Garan replied, leaning more heavily on the man.

Together, they walked slowly toward the door, Buck acting as Garan’s crutch, guiding him out into the bright daylight.

The Waterson Tower Estates was an old apartment complex that had seen better days. The once-pristine walls were now chipped and faded, and the carpeted hallways had long since lost their vibrancy, now a dull, stained gray. The place had a faint smell of must and old wood, mingled with the occasional aroma of someone’s cooking wafting through the corridors.

Garan and Buck walked down the narrow hallway, their footsteps muffled by the threadbare carpet. They stopped in front of door 705, an apartment with peeling paint around the doorframe. Garan gently freed himself from Buck’s supportive hold, wincing slightly as he did so. He reached out and pressed the doorbell, the chime echoing softly within.

After a few seconds, the door creaked open to reveal an elderly woman, small and frail, with a warm smile that instantly lit up her wrinkled face. This was Mrs. Keller, a sprightly 75-year-old with a kind demeanor that belied her age.

“Oh, hello, Gary. Is it four o’clock already?” she asked in a voice marked by the quaver of age, but full of genuine warmth.

“No, Mrs. Keller,” Garan replied, managing a polite smile despite the pain in his side. “I left work early today. Is Evelyn ready to go?”

“She’s just playing in the other room,” Mrs. Keller said, stepping aside to let Garan see inside her modest apartment. The place was cluttered but cozy, filled with knick-knacks and mementos collected over a lifetime.

At that moment, a small figure burst into the room, running full tilt toward the door. It was Evelyn, Garan’s four-year-old daughter, her face lighting up with pure joy as she saw her father. Garan bent down, ready to scoop her up into his arms, but to his surprise, she dashed past him and threw herself at Buck’s leg, clinging to him with all the exuberance of a child reunited with a favorite relative.

“Yay! You’re here!” Evelyn exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement.

Mrs. Keller chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling as she looked at Buck. “Oh, you must be Uncle Danny. Evelyn has been talking about you all day.”

Buck shot a confused, accusatory glance at Garan, who looked equally perplexed. Garan could only offer a helpless shrug, baffled by the sudden turn of events. Meanwhile, Evelyn had let go of Buck’s leg and was already racing down the hall toward their apartment.

“See you next time, Mrs. Keller. Thanks,” Garan said, turning to follow his daughter, his limp more pronounced now that he was no longer supported.

“No problem, dear,” Mrs. Keller replied with a fond smile, watching as Garan slowly made his way down the hall.

Buck followed Garan two doors down to apartment 703, his steps measured and thoughtful. Garan fished his keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and watched as Evelyn rushed inside. Just as Garan was about to follow, Buck grabbed his arm, his grip firm but not unfriendly.

“What was that all about?” Buck asked, his voice low and serious.

“What?” Garan replied, still trying to piece together what had just happened.

“The old lady,” Buck said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She knew my name. Uncle Danny?”

Garan sighed, realizing the source of Buck’s confusion. “Yeah, sorry. She’s kind of a weird lady. What’s the word? Eccentric?”

Buck’s expression didn’t soften. “And your kid was talking about me?”

Garan shrugged again, trying to downplay the oddness of the situation. “Danny’s a common name. Mrs. Keller doesn’t have the best grip on reality. Last week she told me Evelyn can read minds. Before that, she said Evelyn was disappearing.”

He peeked inside the apartment to check on Evelyn, who was already engrossed in some toy she had left on the floor earlier. Satisfied, Garan turned back to Buck, continuing in a quieter tone. “She gets stuck in her imagination, but she watches Evelyn for free, and she’s super nice. She’s harmless.”

Buck still looked unconvinced. “I don’t know, man. That was weird.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Garan replied, genuinely feeling bad about the awkwardness. “Hey, did you want to come in? I don’t have much, but I can get you some tea or something.”

Buck shook his head, his demeanor finally relaxing a bit. “No, I’m good. I’m just glad you made it home. Take care of those ribs, killer.”

“Okay,” Garan said with a grateful nod. “Well, thanks again, Buck. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

Buck hesitated for a moment, as if weighing something in his mind. “Actually, yeah, maybe. You busy tomorrow?”

Garan chuckled dryly, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “I just lost my job. I’m free for the foreseeable future.”

Buck grinned. “Good. I’ll be here to pick you up tomorrow at noon. Be ready.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you then,” Garan agreed, though a small part of him wondered what he was getting himself into.

With that, Buck turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the empty hall as he made his way back toward the elevator. Garan watched him go, then closed the door behind him, the lock clicking softly into place.