Daniel returned to his room.
On the bed waited two changes of clothes—two black coats, two crisp white shirts, and a pair of black trousers. On one of the benches sat a steaming bowl of soup, sending up an intense aroma. He tore off a piece of bread and began eating cautiously.
The sound of the door made the hairs on his arms stand up.He turned his head. Someone was opening it—slowly.
A figure slipped in without a sound: a heavyset young man in a black coat and a grimy yellow shirt. His trousers matched the dark shade of the coat. His long blond hair nearly hid his eyes, and the heat had painted his cheeks a flushed pink, softening part of his expression. Daniel set the bread down, rose slowly, and approached with guarded steps.
"Palermo?"
The young man said nothing. His gaze skittered everywhere but Daniel's face, his breathing slightly labored. After a few taut seconds, his rough voice broke the silence.
"I need dishes. I wash them."
Daniel glanced at the still-steaming meal.
"But… unless I'm mistaken, they just brought it in."
Palermo kept dodging his eyes.
"I need dishes. I wash them."
Daniel stayed still, frustration creeping into his face. He tried reasoning with him.
"Gerónimo just got here. A few minutes ago, he told me, 'Food's at the house—walk before it gets cold.'"
He waited for a flicker of reaction, but Palermo didn't look up.
"I need dishes. I wash them."
Daniel's patience was running dry. There was nothing left to say. After a brief pause, he chose to ignore him, sat back down, and resumed eating as if Palermo weren't even there. He knew the boy had some sort of issue—and that arguing was pointless. Palermo remained standing, scanning the room like a slow radar, always avoiding Daniel's eyes. Minutes passed before the boy finally turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open.
Daniel watched him go… then allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile. Ignoring him was the best move, he thought. Three minutes later, the door creaked open again. This time Palermo stepped in holding a broom handle.
Daniel froze, mid-chew.
"…Palermo?"
The boy met his eyes for the first time—then glanced down at the broomstick, then back at Daniel, narrowing his eyes as if making some grim calculation.
" how to cut this stick so it fits up your ass."
Daniel was struck dumb.
A heartbeat later, he vanished from the first floor.
Palermo calmly gathered all the dishes into his arms and walked out, heading toward Amish Hill. From the second-floor window, Daniel watched him retreat—his face caught somewhere between fear and utter confusion. The comment had been as unexpected as it was disturbing.
A few minutes later, Daniel burst into the Terries' café, breathing hard. His eyes swept the modest space: four tables with their chairs, a breakfast counter at the back, and a small kitchen hidden behind a curtain.
Paul came out, drying his hands on a rag. Marla followed, attentive.
"This kid reminds me of my uncle," Paul said, eyeing Daniel..
"The hunchback that dances?" Marla asked, one brow arched.
"No."
"The one who sucks food and spits it out?"
"Not him."
"The gay one who sells himself?"
"No! The one we went to see at the festival."
Marla tilted her head, thinking.
"Oh… the one allergic to dirt."
"That's the one." Paul nodded with dead seriousness.
Daniel, puzzled, tried to join in.
"You… have an uncle with a dancing hunchback?"
Both of them turned to him with narrow-eyed stares, clearly expecting something else from him.
"Sorry… I just wanted to ask when the bus comes by. I can't remember the schedule. I should've left yesterday."
Marla stepped closer, her voice warmer.
"Easy, kid… you look like you've seen a ghost."
The memory of Palermo's remark still vivid in his mind.
"I just need to know. I can even help out. I don't mind sleeping here. The floor's my best friend."
Marla turned to Paul, muttering in a tone edged with suspicion.
"He's showing signs of acute mama's-boy syndrome… like that uncle of yours who slept naked with his mother."
"I prefer my uncle," Paul muttered. "This one probably has ticks."
Daniel raised his voice.
"I can hear you, you know."
Marla's tone shifted instantly..
"Okay, weirdo."
"Weirdo?" Daniel echoed, brow furrowing.
"She means 'psychopath,'" Paul said flatly.
"I said 'little friend!'" Marla corrected quickly, a little too quickly.
Daniel tried to speak again, but Marla cut him off.
"The next bus leaves in the morning, and no—you can't stay here. We're a married couple who need our space… to reignite the lost spark."
Paul swallowed hard. Marla shot him a mischievous smile.
"I'll get you a blanket, so you'll be more comfortable kid," Paul offered, turning to leave.
Marla stopped him with a glance—but then something outside caught her attention.
"Daniel! A man just passed by on the street. Must be another visitor! Quick, go see."
Daniel spun around and hurried out of the café. Marla followed him to the door, locked it behind him… just in case he came back.