[ Logan makes an expression that seems to say, Why wouldn't it be?
And that's that. He rides with her to the hotel's open lot, parks alongside her car, and gets her a set of keys. Carries her groceries inside. The room's three doors down as promised. He doesn't introduce her to anybody, doesn't even tell her he's staying with a friend, though in the days that pass, she might notice a man in a wheelchair come and go. Might catch Logan doing stuff for the two of them, bringing home laundry and takeout and whatever else he can get his hands on in this godforsaken place.
He doesn't go out of his way to bother her. He can't help checking up on her, though, and he walks past her door once or twice just to make sure she's inside when it's late at night. Inside and not...missing, somehow, or gone.
He was out for a walk, anyhow.
By day five, he's driven to and from the Scrapyard three damn times before he comes up with the oil filter he needs. He doesn't like hanging around that place, so he'd put down a bottle of rice liquor, borrowed a couple of tools, and promised he'll return with the equipment intact or they can keep the booze. It's late in the afternoon when he reaches the hotel parking lot again. That's what she'll find if she walks by: oil-stained rag, tools laid out on the concrete, and Logan crouched on the cracked, rain-puddled ground with a toothpick between his lips in place of a cigar. Ran out two days ago.
He smells her coming, hears the clink of bottles, but it's not 'til she says something or stops right in front of him that he looks up. A beat as he studies the sun glancing off her hair. Then: ] Hey, Karen.
no subject
And that's that. He rides with her to the hotel's open lot, parks alongside her car, and gets her a set of keys. Carries her groceries inside. The room's three doors down as promised. He doesn't introduce her to anybody, doesn't even tell her he's staying with a friend, though in the days that pass, she might notice a man in a wheelchair come and go. Might catch Logan doing stuff for the two of them, bringing home laundry and takeout and whatever else he can get his hands on in this godforsaken place.
He doesn't go out of his way to bother her. He can't help checking up on her, though, and he walks past her door once or twice just to make sure she's inside when it's late at night. Inside and not...missing, somehow, or gone.
He was out for a walk, anyhow.
By day five, he's driven to and from the Scrapyard three damn times before he comes up with the oil filter he needs. He doesn't like hanging around that place, so he'd put down a bottle of rice liquor, borrowed a couple of tools, and promised he'll return with the equipment intact or they can keep the booze. It's late in the afternoon when he reaches the hotel parking lot again. That's what she'll find if she walks by: oil-stained rag, tools laid out on the concrete, and Logan crouched on the cracked, rain-puddled ground with a toothpick between his lips in place of a cigar. Ran out two days ago.
He smells her coming, hears the clink of bottles, but it's not 'til she says something or stops right in front of him that he looks up. A beat as he studies the sun glancing off her hair. Then: ] Hey, Karen.