Buster's Journey

Two weeks later, morning light drifts through thin blinds in a small apartment that still smells faintly of cardboard and fresh paint. Half-unpacked boxes crowd the living room, but the place is quiet in a way that feels chosen.

Buster Jones stands by the kitchen counter, one broad hand resting on a stack of plates. He looks less like a weapon in this light, more like someone trying to learn the shape of home.

Mara sets it down with a small, careful smile. Her sleeves are rolled up, and she is trying very hard to make the room feel ordinary on purpose.

Outside, a dog barks once, a car passes, and somewhere a radio murmurs from another apartment. Inside, the boxes stay still, the light stays soft, and Mara stays near enough that neither of them has to fill the silence alone.

Buster takes the mug from Mara's hands with care, then draws her into a slow, steady embrace. She lets out a small breath and leans into him, shoulders easing as if the room finally remembers how to be quiet.

Her fingers close lightly at his back. The mug rests safely against the counter, forgotten for the moment, while morning light warms the edge of the kitchen.

Buster's injured hand settles carefully at her shoulder, and Mara's expression softens into something almost disbelieving. For a few heartbeats, the apartment feels less like a stopover and more like a promise kept.

Then a sharp rattle cuts through the peace from the entryway. A folded flyer has slipped under the door, and the top line shows Buster's name in bold black ink.

Buster eases out of Mara's arms and crosses the kitchen toward the front door. He bends, picks up the folded flyer, and straightens with it in hand.

The paper unfolds in Buster’s hands. A bold black header gives way to a clean photo of him, taken from too far away to be harmless.

Below the image, smaller print lists a neighborhood meeting, a date, and a call for witnesses. The bottom line names a private contact number, neat as a threat.

The strip of paper scrapes against the cut on Buster’s hand, and a faint smear of blood marks the corner.

From the kitchen, Mara goes still. The apartment suddenly feels smaller, like the walls have heard the flyer too.

The number at the bottom sits in plain view, waiting for someone to call.

Mara leaves the kitchen doorway and slows beside him, not touching the paper, only reading the room with him.

Buster presses the contact number on the flyer. The line rings once, then clicks into a live connection.

Mara goes still beside him. The paper in Buster’s hand suddenly feels less like a warning and more like a tag on their front door.

The call ends. In the apartment’s small silence, Mara’s eyes lift toward the door, then back to Buster, as if measuring how many neighbors might already know.