Mike's Wager: Short Story (The Camerons of Tide's Way #3.5) by Skye Taylor Page B

around his ankles. Then he pushed open the flap and stepped out into the crisp cold air. He didn’t remember it ever being this cold in Tide’s Way, in March. Spring break week was usually warm. Warm enough to lure people to the beaches on the outer banks from places like Cambridge and Minnesota. But not this year.
    Mike wandered far enough from the bandstand to take a leak without adding to the fetid stink that clung to his make-shift quarters and relieved himself on some bushes. It seemed like his urine should have frozen on contact with the naked branches, but apparently it only felt like it was cold enough for that to happen. Damp salt air was like that.
    It felt good to stretch, and he actually felt warmer now that he was moving about. He decided to take a walk. There was barely any moon so he didn’t think anyone would see him, even if they did happen to be wandering about the deserted green wedged in between Jolee Road and Lee Street.
    He stepped up onto the sidewalk that ran along Jolee Road. The faint sound of voices came from the Baptist Church across the street and a handful of cars were parked in the lot. Choir practice. Every Thursday was choir practice and not so long ago, he’d have been in there singing along with everyone else. Warm, well-fed and surrounded by friends.
    Mike stayed in the shadows until he was well past the church, then let his stride lengthen, walking faster, working up some heat. He pulled one of his last granola bars from his pocket and nibbled on it to quiet the rumbling of his stomach. It wasn’t used to such deprivation and it complained loudly and often. Too often.
    The lights of the 7-Eleven grew brighter. Mike was tempted. He had cash in his pocket. He could just go in and get a premade sub and a box of cookies. A quart of milk would be good too. But he’d be recognized. Besides, in some crazy-assed way, he felt like the experiment wouldn’t count if he chowed down like he usually did. Otherwise, he could have walked the twelve miles to his own house and raided the fridge. No one was home and no one would know. Except he would know.
    He turned away and headed back down the far side of the park on Lee Street. Past the bookstore, the post office and the town hall. All were dark and closed up tight for the night. Occasionally a car would drive past, and Mike shrank into the shadows until they were out of sight. He passed the place where his current home huddled in the lee of the bandstand and continued on, all the way down to Stewart Street and back up Jolee road from the other direction.
    Having never clocked the distance, Mike had to guess, but he thought it might have been six or seven miles. He was pleasantly tired and ready to curl up again in whatever comfort he could find when he finally reached his box.
    He would have stepped right on it, had the scent of warm gravy and biscuits not caught his attention first. He pulled a tiny flashlight from his pocket and pointed it at the ground. Wrapped in a checkered dishcloth, the still steaming plate of food sat in front of the entry flap to his leaky, tarp lean-to.
    Mike jerked to a stand and whipped around. He flicked the flashlight off and peered into the shadows, waiting for his eyes to adjust again.
    “Hello?”
    Nothing.
    Mike walked carefully around the perimeter of the bandstand.
    No one.
    He checked inside the bandstand, then circled further out.
    Still no one.
    His stomach rumbled with renewed energy. Whoever had left him his dinner was gone. At least for now. Mike returned to the box, picked up the towel-wrapped plate and bent to enter his humble lodging. He sat cross-legged in the tiny space and turned his little flashlight on end so he could see what he was eating.
    He was halfway through the plate of chicken, sweet potatoes, biscuits and gravy before it occurred to him that he might win his bet after all. So long as he got someone to care about a nameless homeless person within the six days allotted, he’d win. But it