Page 83 of Isaac

Sister Angela then guides us through the familiar corridors of the church. Well, familiar to me, while Hawk observes every detail like an eager explorer about to chart unvisited territories.

"You don't strike me as the religious type," he whispers as we follow Sister Angela inside a large hall where at least a dozen kids of various ages are already seated at the long table.

I don’t have the time to give him an answer. And I’m glad for it.

"Guess what?" Sister Angela announces, clapping her hands. Her cheerful declaration reverberates through the large space commandeering everyone’s attention. "We’ve got some special guests visiting us today."

The sight of bags prompts the kids to descend upon us like an enthusiastic army. They are claiming shares, creating quite the animated battle around Hawk who looks dazed for a moment, surrounded by this frenzy while Sister Angela and I share an understanding smile at their pure, unbridled joy.

Every time I stop by Sister Angela’s and her sea of youthful energy, I find that any hurried exit strategy I may have gets nixed before it begins. I’m always tempted to bolt straight out of the church once I hand her the gifts, but I cave in instead, just like right now, watching Hawk–patience personified–field questions from children wondering about the mechanismbehind their latest toys or why his hair flows down to his shoulders or whether his tattoos hurt when he had them done.

Time turns surreptitious inside the church, slinking by quietly until we finally escape into lingering daylight that has tracked across the sky unnoticed but still allows for one more errand.

"You come here often?" Hawk asks as we climb into the car and I steer into the evening traffic.

"Sometimes," I supply.

He’s quiet for a while, just messing around with the radio controls until some bluesy tune catches his attention.

"Jessica spent her last two years before she aged out here at the church orphanage," I say, unsure why I need to share this info. "She would have been dead or…worse if not for Sister Angela."

"She and Jeremy were both in the system, right?"

"Yes. Their parents were killed. Old street war. She was still a baby then, but Jeremy, he remembers it. And you know how he can be. No one wanted him as a foster kid because of his temper. In the end, they got separated and she was placed with a different family. She stayed with them for a good while, but her foster dad was a real dick. She needed to get out of there eventually."

"Life is funny, huh?" Hawk comments. He sounds almost philosophical. "When you only see what you see from your vantage point without knowing what the other side sees from theirs, it’s… not a full picture. And you can’t really work with the half-truth, can you?" He turns his head to me right when we stop at the red light. I meet his gaze. The wind catches his hair, dark strands brushing against his cheekbone before sliding into the air.

"Truth is relative," I reply.

"Not in some cases."

"Like?" I wing up a brow.

"The earth is round," he supplies without missing a bit. "That’s the truth and no matter how you look at it, it’s still the same."

"Then why all the deep contemplation?"

"Just thinking," he murmurs with a sad smile as if there’s something heavy in his heart and he can’t say it.

And I chose not to prod. We all have our own ghosts. Sometimes, it takes time to start talking about them. Sometimes, you never do and sometimes something pushes you before you’re ready.

The last stop of the night is a land lot the family recently acquired from some developer who went belly up.

It’s a combo of fresh concrete and steel—a sprawling modern beast rising against the horizon, never finished. Just bare walls. Blocks of cement and construction dust everywhere. Several cranes loom over the terrain, creating weird shadows that mingle with the long beams of receding light that falls from the sky as the sun is about to disappear behind the buildings in the distance.

I steer the car toward the unfinished entrance to the building, or its carcass, to be more exact. A derelict skeleton rather than a building.

"Thoreau’s recent purchase," I tell Hawk as we abandon the comfort of the vehicle.

I’ve been here before. Several times. Georgie isn’t much of a brain, so Uncle gave the assignment to me.

We navigate toward the staircase, cutting our way through veils of dust particles hanging motionless in shafts of fading afternoon light. We're ascending up to where construction had drawn its last breath. The final half-finished floor is our destination.

"Another casino?" Hawk asks over his shoulder while we near the edge of the floor under our feet. "It’s gonna look sweet when it's done," he comments, nodding toward the smattering of buildings in the distance. The Strip.

"Possibly," I reply. "But I don’t know yet. Could be condos or business spaces."

"Great view regardless."

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