Chapter 19

“So come up.”

“You sure?”

He nods. He smiles. He takes a step, tugging gently on my hand. “Come on, I think I even have a clean towel.”

The room smells like unclean underwear and hard-worn athletic shoes, and looks like a tornado blows through it about once every two weeks. George strides casually from the door, through the maze of cast-off jeans, flip-flops, and dining hall plates, and cranks open the window above an unmade twin bed, onto which he plops, declaring it his own.