Cutler 01 - Dawn

bone," I said, pulling back and shaking out my palms.
    "I got caught in it just outside of Virginia Beach." "How did you get here?"
    "Hitched all the way. I'm getting to be real good at it," he said, turning to Philip.
    "But how . . . why?" I squealed, unable to cloak my joy.
    "I ran away. Couldn't take it anymore. I'm on my way to Georgia to find our . . . to find my relatives and live with them. But I thought I'd stop by here and see you one more time."
    "One of the guys came into the hotel looking for me," Philip explained. "They said someone from Emerson Peabody wanted to see me outside. I couldn't imagine . . . anyway, there he was."
    "I thought I should get a hold of Philip and have him find you. I didn't want to take any chances. I'm not going back," he declared firmly, pulling back his shoulders.
    "I told him he could stay here in the hideaway for a few days," Philip said. "We'll get him some food, warm clothing, and some money."
    "But, Jimmy, won't they just come after you?"
    "I don't care if they do, but they probably won't. No one really cares," he said, his eyes small and determined and full of anger. "I didn't know when you and I would ever see each other again, Dawn. I had to come," he said.
    Our gazes locked warmly on each other's, and in that gaze I saw all our happier times together, saw his smile, and something inside me became warm. Suddenly I felt safer here at Cutler's Cove.
    "I'm going back to the hotel and sneak into the kitchen to get him something to eat," Philip said. "I'll also get him some dry clothes and a towel. We've just got to be careful that no one discovers him," Philip emphasized. He turned to Jimmy. "My grandmother would blow her stack. Don't go out without checking carefully to see that no one's around, okay?"
    Jimmy nodded.
    "Give me about fifteen minutes to get the food and the clothing," he said and hurried out.
    "You'd better start taking off those wet clothes, Jimmy," I advised. It was as if we had never been apart and I was still looking after him.
    He nodded and pulled off his shirt. His wet skin gleamed under the light. Even in the short time we had been apart, he looked changed—he was older, bigger, with broader shoulders and thicker arms. I took his shirt and draped it over a chair as he sat down to take off his soaked sneakers and socks.
    "Tell me what happened to you after we were taken to the police station, Jimmy. Do you know anything about Fern?" I added quickly.
    "No, I never saw her after we were brought to the station. They took me to what they called a holding house where there were other kids waiting to be assigned to foster homes. Some were older, but most were younger than me. We slept on bunk beds not much bigger or nicer than this one," he said, "and we were crowded four in a room. One little boy kept whimpering all night. The others continually shouted at him to shut up, but he was too frightened. I got into a fight with them because they wouldn't stop terrorizing the kid."
    "Why doesn't that surprise me?" I said, smiling.
    "Well, it made them feel big to bully him," he said angrily. "Anyway, one thing led to another, and I was put in the basement of the house to sleep. It had a dirt floor and lots of bugs and even rats!
    "A day later I was told they had already found a home for me. I think they were determined to get rid of me first. The others were jealous, but that was only because they didn't know where I was going.
    "I went home with this chicken farmer, Leo Coons. He was a stout, grouchy man with a face like a bulldog, and he had a scar across his forehead. It looked like someone had hit him with an ax. His wife was half his size, and he treated her like another kid. They had two daughters. It was his wife who encouraged me to run away. Her name was Beryle, and I couldn't believe she was only in her thirties. She had gray hair and looked as worn down as an old pencil. Nothing she did made Coons happy. The house was never clean enough; the food never tasted right. Complain, complain, complain was all he did.
    "I had a nice room, but he had come to the holding house to get a foster kid my age to make into a slave. First thing he did was show me how to candle eggs and had me up before dawn working alongside his two daughters, both older than me, but both as skinny as scarecrows and both with big, sad dark eyes that reminded me of frightened puppy dogs.
    "Coons moved me from one job to the next—shoveling chicken manure, lugging feed. We worked