September bleeds into October, bringing a misty haze of rain and fog with it. I've spent most of my time this week working my ass off to stay in a motel room, scraping together the sixty-five bucks we need each night to stay there. Panhandling and odd jobs are all I do or think about. 

Pixie and I are still sick. In fact, Pixie's getting worse and worse. She never completely got better after that first round of sickness. Her cough went away for a couple days last week, only to turn back in on itself and become a fever all over again, worse than before. Today she was above a hundred degrees on the thermometer, and she's throwing up what little food she can keep down.

I know she's dehydrated so I'm trying my hardest to keep liquids in her, but I can't be here 24/7 to make sure she's getting what she needs. The most important thing right now is to keep her inside and out of the weather. I know I can't dip into my saved money to pay for this room, but as long as I can make sixty-five bucks a day, we're good. For now.

It's four in the morning, and I'm somehow awake. I've turned on the bedside lamp and have my notebook open on my lap, trying to write. Beside me, Pixie whimpers in her sleep from fever aches.

"You can't plan for everything," I write, "I didn't plan on being sick this long. I didn't plan on meeting Rory. I didn't plan on finding that letter from Nikki. I definetely didn't plan on Pixie being this sick. If I'm honest I have no cloo what to do Im not sure I can keep up working so much. I wunder if I should just cave and take her to a hospitle. I wish I new a docter. I can't pay a docter much but I could work something out to get her treated."

I stop there. It's early, but I might as well start my day.

I feel good about leaving Pixie at the motel during the day while I work, because there's a lock on the door. Even though the chain lock is broken off the wall, the deadbolt still works, and she can stay busy watching TV. The motel's a dive in a shitty part of town, and it's dingy inside, but there's a bathroom and a bed so who am I to complain?

"I'll be back tonight, Pixie," I whisper softly in her ear, "I'm gonna go work. I've made your lunch and it's in the little fridge. Do you want me to turn on the TV for you?"

She nods her head weakly. I turn on some kid's channel and then force her to gulp down a tablespoon of medicine and a glass of water.

"Austin?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we go see Anna today?" she asks hopefully.

"You're too sick, Pixie," I reply.

"But I miss her..."

She hasn't seen Rory since the night she doctored my foot, two weeks ago.

"Well maybe when you get better, we can both go," I say.

True to my word, I've met with Rory every week. It's the highlight of my week, and being near her makes me feel lighter, like a little bit of this ever-present weight on my shoulders lifts, even if just for a few minutes. We've started spending more time just chatting. On slow nights I can hang around her register for up to fifteen minutes, listening to her tell me about her day, her brother, her life... so different from mine. I'll visit her tonight, and the thought strengthens me and fills me with hope despite how shitty I feel.

"Where's Olaf?" Pixie asks.

The plush toy has fallen off the bed and out of her reach. I pick it up and tuck it next to her.

"He's right here to keep you safe. Stay in bed today," I say as I open up the door. Then I blow her a kiss, "I love you."

————-

This morning I got a job laying bricks in a new housing division. The guy who hired me also took a bunch of Mexican immigrants to the site, and they've been glaring at me all day, but at least I got to drive my own van so I can leave on my terms.

I'm not in the mood for anyone's shit, and I'm happy when the day finally ends so I can pack up and go back to the motel. I'm still feeling crappy but not as bad as Pixie. I just got this cough that's settled in my lungs, and I can't seem to shake it. I know I probably haven't been taking care of myself the way I should, but Pixie's more important. 

I get back to the room and find it dark inside. Pixie's lying on the bed right where I left her. Her lunch sits untouched in the fridge. I coax her to open her mouth so I can check her temperature. Hundred and four. Fuck. That's bad, really bad.

I pace the floor, queasy with fear, debating taking her to the hospital. I know if I do, they'll ask questions. Those questions will eventually lead to them taking her. Mom still has custody, which means Ray will have his profit back. The thought turns my stomach; I'll die before I let him get his filthy hands on her again. And me... who knows what they'll do with me? Jail? Juvie? Group home? But if I let her stay like this... I don't want to think it, but I know she could die.

"Austin?" Pixie asks weakly.

"I'm here, Baby," I say softly, smoothing her sweaty hair off her face. I can feel the heat of the fever radiating off her skin.

"Austin I feel-"

She doesn't get the rest of it out. Midsentence the words turn into a river of puke, all over me and the bed.

"Pixie!" I yell.

"I'm sorry!" she sobs.

"You need to tell me so I can take you to the toilet to do that! Now I have to clean all this up!"

She's crying, covered in vomit, but I'm so tired I just don't care right now. Everything is so hard, and I don't know what to do. I wish someone would just appear and tell me what to do. Or better yet, do it for me and just let me collapse on the floor and sleep for a thousand years. 

The sound of Pixie crying brings me back. It's not her fault.

"It's okay, Baby. Come here," I say softly, picking her up. "I'm sorry I yelled. I'm not mad at you."

She sobs harder, which brings on a coughing fit. I gently rub her back as I pace the little room with her in my arms, listening to her wheezing and struggling for breath.

"Shh..." I whisper in her ear, "I'm not mad, sweetheart. It's okay."

I walk with her for almost an hour. She's started hallucinating from the fever and keeps talking about monsters in all the corners, watching her.

That's when I take her to the bathroom to run a bath. Cold or hot? I know I should try to bring down the fever, but she's shivering uncontrollably. Even though she's burning up, she says she's freezing. I start running the bathwater on cool temperature as she whimpers in my arms.

"The bath is nice and warm," I lie, "Let's get you undressed. Then I'll read to you."

Just then I hear a loud pounding on the door. 

"Austin!" Pixie cries and buries her face in my chest, and I can hear how scared she is. "The monsters!"

"It's okay," I whisper back to her, but my heart is pounding as loud as the fists on the door. I'm scared too, just for completely different reasons. "Just stay here, okay?"

I walk out of the bathroom, glancing at the mess on the bed. I'll have to spend the next few hours scrubbing the sheets by hand since I can't risk getting kicked out of here.

"Who is it?" I ask, leaning in close to the door and praying it's not the manager.

"Open up!"

The voice is angry. I'm not about to open it, but whoever it is kicks the door with such force that the wood splinters as the hinges fly open. I'm flung back against the dresser with the TV on it and hear it crash to the floor at the same time I do. I'm dazed. Voices.  At least three or four. Laughing. 

"Pixie!" I hear myself shouting, "Pixie, stay there!"

It's then that I recognize two guys from the site today, the ones who were glaring at me. They must have followed me here and brought two friends.

"Whatcha got in here, fucking wedo? Cash?" one of them says, digging through my backpack. 

I'm on my feet in a second, grabbing the baseball bat I keep beside the bed, but before I can even lift it, they're on me. I'm outnumbered, weak from being sick for days on end, and I know I don't stand a chance, but hell if I'll go down without a fight. One of them holds my arms behind my back as another punches me in the face and stomach. I can hear Pixie screaming. Her screams are the worst part about it, knowing she's watching all this. 

"Austin!" she sobs, and out of the corner of my eye I watch her run into the room. Through a haze of blood and fists, I see her kick one of the men in the shin. He whips around and grabs her hair. She screams in pain.

"This little bitch just kicked me!" he shouts in English.

"LEAVE HER ALONE!" I yell, trying to tear myself out of their grasp. The second I get free, they're all dead.

"Forget about it, Alex, I've got something here."

It's the guy who was digging through my backpack, and I see he's holding our money. All our money. That wad of cash is the most important thing in our lives.

"Let him and the brat go. I think he's learned his lesson. You take our fucking jobs again, we come for both of you. And next time, you won't be able to buy your way out," he says.

The men give me one last kick in the stomach and then leave. Our money. It's all gone. I try to get to my feet and chase them down, but I hear their tires squealing before I can even reach the parking lot. I'm clutching my side and can barely breathe, and I know one of my ribs must be cracked. Somehow my arm has been cut too. It's deep. Dark blood drips on the concrete, but I barely even notice the pain.

They're gone.

I limp back to the room and collapse on the floor. The money is gone. Everything I've saved for me and Pixie. The money for our new life. Just gone. It's amazing how the whole fucking world can fall apart in seconds.

I can't help it. I break then. I bury my head in my hands and just sob, knowing I can't be strong anymore and don't even want to try. I can feel Pixie's little arms trying to hug me. I feel her kissing the cuts and bruises. She's crying too.

"It's okay," she says, her voice shaking, "I'll help, Austin. I'll make it better. Don't cry."

"We gotta go, Baby. Get packed," I say softly, rubbing the tears off my face.

I don't have the luxury of being able to cry on the floor like a little kid waiting for Mommy and Daddy to fix things. No one's gonna save our asses unless I do. I have to get up, I have to get up and fight for us.

From somewhere deep inside my fractured soul, from a reservoir that grew bigger and deeper with every trauma in my childhood, I picture myself grabbing a fistful of strength. In my vision I crush the hell out of it and smear the dust on my face like war paint. And I get the fuck up off that floor.

Pixie doesn't even bother protesting or asking why. By now, she understands. I've paid for the room through the night, but there's no way we can stay here with a broken door and the place all trashed. In a few minutes, the cops'll probably be here, and we have to get out before then.

Pixie puts on her shoes, throws her toys in her pink backpack, and then helps me pack my own stuff. She's too weak to walk to the van, so I carry her, my bag on my back and hers looped around my wrist, Olaf smashed between us. I can hear her teeth chattering from the fever. 

There is no choice now. I have to get both of us to a hospital, but I'll die before I let them take her from me.