I looked at Wren again.
She looked down at her socks.
One had a hole at the toe.
The unfairness of it made my eyes burn.
Because my mother was not entirely wrong.
And that was the cruelest part.
There were children standing in the hallway with nowhere to sleep.
There were also two grown adults behind them who had learned that if they made enough of a mess, someone else would bleed cleaning it up.
Mr. Gideon cleared his throat.
“The children can sleep here tonight,” he said.
My mother’s face brightened with victory.
“Thank you,” she began.
“I said the children,” he interrupted. “One night. The adults can make phone calls from the kitchen, drink coffee if they can behave, and be gone by morning.”
Sylas stepped forward. “You can’t be serious.”
Mr. Gideon tapped his cane once on the floor.
“I am seventy-three years old, retired, and wearing orthopedic slippers. I assure you, young man, I have never been more serious in my life.”
