Page 7 of Trailer Park Billionaire
We make our way into the atrium and head toward her.
“Helena,” Elaine calls one more time before she skids into view, out of breath and wide-eyed. “It’s your grandfather,” she pants.
3
HELENA
Iknow instantly that this is no joke. There's fear in her expression—real fear—like I’ve never seen before.
“It’s—He’s not well. I don’t know. The lady from his home called. She couldn’t reach you. You need to go. Now.”
Fuck.
Frozen, I glance over at Mr. Lyon. Even his smile has vanished, making my heart sink even further.
“Go,” he says, giving me permission to cut our tour short.
My eyes wander back to Elaine, still unsure what to do.
“It’s fine. Go,” she agrees and, with both hands, motions for me to move.
I swallow hard and turn toward the exit. My eyes catch on the green neon installation on the ceiling that reads‘Dead End’.My mouth tastes like dust.
Breathe. I need to breathe.
And walk.
Quickly.
I make it to the column an arm lengths away from me before stopping again.Bus.“Bus. I don’t have my bus ticket.” Bloodrushes to my head. My thoughts start spinning.Bus, subway, bus, run.No time to lose.
My dad’s face flashes before my eyes.
It’ll take at least forty-five minutes to get there.
I used to remember exactly what my dad looked like.Now it’s all blurry.
No, it’s nearly rush hour. It’ll take me at least an hour to get there.I place a hand on the column next to me. It’s cold. Like a corpse.
The blurry image of my dad burns into my mind.
“Easy there,” a calm voice whispers in my ear as a hand on my back steadies me. Then that hand guides me toward the big green letters—now just blurry dots.
“Come on,” Mr. Lyon says, while he pulls out his phone. “I’ll take you to him.”
My mouth still tastes like dust.
“Pull up. Now. Emergency,” he commands into the phone, guiding me around a corner. We come to a stop just in front of the main entrance, the doors opening automatically. “Where do we need to go?” he asks, but not directed at me. He hands his phone to Elaine.
Sleet pellets hit my face, cooling it down a little. The doors shut, the bombardment stops. Elaine hands Mr. Lyon his phone back, and the doors open again. Some of the slush flies into my mouth. The scene reminds me of one of grandpa’s recent paintings—a swirl of dark, choking colors bleeding into each other, like something trying to escape but trapped. No form, just chaos. Angry brushstrokes, jagged and slashing across the canvas, as if everything is unraveling. Like suffocation—everything collapsing in on you with no way out.
A minute later, at the bottom of the stairs, a big RV pulls up and Mr. Lyon gently moves me along. He pulls me in, his broad body sheltering me from the hail. The passenger door fliesopen and, without my help, I’m lifted inside. I land softly in the passenger seat, then my head is turned to the side as his torso presses against me in an attempt to strap me in.
I find myself staring into a pair of dark eyes—angry, or maybe just confused. It’s hard to tell with the hail still blurring my vision.
Mr. Lyon shuts my door, opens another one behind me, and a moment later appears between me and those eyes.
“It’s an emergency!” he shouts. “You know the drill.”
