The man—Henry—looked them over with sharp eyes. Too sharp. Evan fought the urge to fidget. "You two look like you've been through it."
"Just down on our luck. But I can work hard. Whatever you need. Carpentry, yard work, fixing things, burying bodies—" Evan caught himself. "That last one was a joke. Obviously. I don't bury bodies. That would be crazy."
*Smooth, Cross. Real smooth.*
Henry's eyebrows went up. "Noted."
"I'm five," Anaya announced proudly, holding up five fingers. "And I'm VERY helpful. I can carry small things and I know how to say please and thank you!"
Despite everything, Henry smiled. "I bet you are. Tell you what—I need help with this coop, the yard, and my garage is a disaster. You help me out, I'll give you $100 cash and lunch. Fair?"
$100! That was a fortune right now. That was food, shelter, maybe some shoes that weren't falling apart.
"Very fair. Thank you, sir."
Henry called toward the house. "Martha! Got a little girl out here who could use some looking after!"
A round, grandmotherly woman appeared, wiping her hands on an apron. She took one look at Anaya and made a sound like a cat seeing a kitten. "Well bring her in! Child, you look frozen. Come get some hot cocoa."
Anaya looked at Evan uncertainly, tugging on his jacket. The cap hid most of her face, which was good—she was nervous, he could tell.
He knelt down to her level. "It's okay. I'll be right outside the whole time. You can see me through the window. But remember—"
"I'm Anna Miller," she whispered. "Not Anaya. I remember, Papa."
"Good girl. And keep the hat on."
"Even inside?"
"Especially inside. Tell her you're cold. Humans understand cold."
"Okay." She looked at Martha, then back at him. "What if I mess up?"
"You won't. You're smart. Smarter than me, and that's saying something." He tapped her nose gently. "Now go eat cookies and act adorable. You're good at that."
"I AM good at that," she agreed, confidence returning.
Martha took Anaya's small hand and led her inside, already chattering about cookies and cats and warm milk. Anaya looked back once, seeking reassurance. Evan nodded and gave her a thumbs up. *You're okay, kid.*
Then she was gone and Evan was alone with Henry and a hammer and the weirdest day of his life.
"She yours?" Henry asked, handing Evan some tools.
"Yeah. My daughter." The lie came easier now. Or maybe it wasn't entirely a lie anymore. "It's just us."
"What about her mother?"
"It's complicated." Evan focused on the chicken coop, avoiding eye contact. "But we're managing."
They worked for hours. Fixing the coop, clearing the yard, organizing the garage that looked like a tornado had used it for storage. It was hard work, honest work. The kind of work where you could think about anything except secret facilities and experiments on children.
*Normal work. This is what normal people do. They fix chicken coops and don't think about how they're wanted fugitives.*
Through the window, Evan could see Anaya at the kitchen table with Martha, drinking something from a mug, eating what looked like half a bakery. Her cap was still on—good girl. She was gesturing animatedly, probably telling some story. Acting like a regular human kid.
She was really, really good at this. Better than him.
"Your daughter's sweet," Henry said, handing Evan another board. "You're doing a good job with her."
Evan thought about everything—the compound, the escape, teaching a five-year-old elf to pretend to be human, the fact that her real mother was probably worried sick. "Just doing my best."
"That's all any of us can do." Henry wiped his brow. "Kids are resilient. They bounce back better than we do."
*Let's hope so.*
When the work was done, Henry pulled out his wallet and counted out five crisp twenty-dollar bills. Evan stared at them like they were gold bars.
"This is—thank you. Seriously."
"You earned it. If you need more work, come back. I got a list a mile long."
Martha came out with Anaya and a paper bag that smelled amazing. "Sandwiches for later. You two look like you need feeding up."
"You really didn't have to—"
"Nonsense!" Martha hugged Anaya goodbye like she'd known her for years. "You take care of your daddy, okay Anna?"
"I will," Anaya promised. "Thank you for the cookies, Mrs. Martha! And for showing me Whiskers and Mittens!"
"Anytime, sweetie."
As they walked away, Evan counted the money again. One hundred dollars. Real, actual money.
"Papa, Mrs. Martha was SO nice," Anaya whispered excitedly. "She has two cats named Whiskers and Mittens and Whiskers only has one eye but he's very brave and she showed me pictures of when they were kittens and gave me FIVE cookies. Five! That's the same number as how old I am!"
"That's great, kid. Did you keep the hat on the whole time?"
"Yes! I told her I was cold like you said and she said that's okay, some people run cold, and then she gave me warm milk." Anaya skipped a little. "And I didn't even have to cry this time!"
Evan snorted despite himself. "Yeah, let's not make crying your signature move."
"Mama says I have an expressive face."
"Mama's being just good with you."
They used some of the money at the general store—food that would keep, a warmer jacket for Anaya because the one she had was basically tissue paper, some supplies. The cashier smiled at them like they were regular customers. Like they belonged.
*We could stay here,* Evan thought. *We could actually stay.*
Then he caught sight of a newspaper stand outside. Even from here, he could see the headline: "MANHUNT CONTINUES."
*Or not.*
They found a motel on the edge of town. The kind that had probably seen better days back in the 70s and had given up since then. The neon sign flickered VACANCY in sad pink letters.
Perfect. The kind of place that didn't ask questions if you paid enough.
The room was small and kind of gross, but it had a bed and heat and a door that locked. Luxury. Evan had stayed in worse. Much worse.
The moment they were inside with the door locked and curtains closed, Anaya ripped off her cap like it was on fire.
"FINALLY! Papa, my ears were DYING!" Her pointed ears popped free and she rubbed them vigorously, sighing in relief. Her golden hair tumbled out, messy from being squished all day.
"Better?"
"SO much better. Wearing hats all day is terrible. How do humans do it?" She flopped on the bed dramatically. "Papa, this bed is squishy. Like sleeping on a cloud! A very bouncy cloud!"
She proceeded to test this theory by bouncing. Repeatedly.
"Kid, you're gonna break the bed."
"I'm light like a feather!"
"Feathers don't bounce like maniacs."
They ate the sandwiches Martha had packed. Anaya got crumbs everywhere. On the bed, on her shirt, somehow on the wall. How did she get crumbs on the wall? It defied physics.
"Kid, how do you get food in your HAIR?"
She paused mid-bite, reaching up to touch her hair. Sure enough, there was a piece of bread. "It's magic."
"That's not how magic works."
"How do you know? You even forgot you are my father and an elf." She pulled the bread out and ate it. "Waste not, want not! That's what Mama says."
"Your mama probably didn't mean eating food from your hair."
As the sun set through the dirty window, Evan felt something weird. Something he hadn't felt in days. Maybe longer.
Almost... safe?
They'd made it through a whole day. Worked, ate, acted normal. Nobody suspected anything. Nobody called the cops. Henry and Martha had been kind without asking too many questions.
Maybe they could do this. Maybe they could actually pull this off.
"Papa?" Anaya was changing into the new clothes they'd bought—soft pajamas with little stars on them. She loved them immediately, kept rubbing the fabric and giggling.
"Yeah, kid?"
"Are we going to be okay?"
Evan looked at her—this tiny elf girl with golden hair and amber eyes, wearing star pajamas in a crappy motel room, asking questions way too big for a five-year-old.
"Yeah," he said, and tried to mean it. "We're going to be okay."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She smiled, bright and trusting, and climbed into bed. "Papa, come sleep here."
"Kid, you've got the whole bed—"
"But I want you here. Please?" Those big amber eyes again, the ones that were way too effective. "I sleep better when you're close. What if I have bad dreams about the scary place?"
Evan sighed. He was too tired to argue. "Okay, but you better not kick me in your sleep."
"I don't kick!"
"You absolutely kick. Last night you kicked me in the ribs. Twice."
"That was an accident!"
"Both times?"
She giggled and snuggled against his side the moment he lay down, her small body warm and solid and real.
"Papa!"
"Yeah?"
"I carry you with me always." She said it sleepily.
Evan felt something bloom inside," Yeah kid, I carry you with me always."
Within minutes, she was asleep, her breathing soft and even, one small hand curled in his shirt like she was afraid he'd disappear.
Evan stared at the ceiling with its water stains shaped like various states, thinking about the day. About Henry and Martha's kindness. About Anaya's ridiculous apple-stealing crying act that had worked way too well. About how they'd pulled this off.
Tomorrow they'd figure out next steps. Tomorrow they'd decide whether to stay or keep moving. Tomorrow—
A TV clicked on in the next room. Through the thin wall, Evan heard voices.
"—breaking news in the search for Evan Cross, wanted for the abduction of a classified subject from a military facility—"
Evan's blood froze.
*Oh, come on.*
"—Cross, 32, is described as six feet tall, brown hair, considered armed and extremely dangerous—"
*I'm not even that dangerous. I mean, I am, but still.*
"—a reward of $50,000 is being offered for information leading to his capture—"
*Fifty grand? Wow. I'm flattered and also completely screwed.*
"—authorities stress that Cross may be traveling with a small child and should not be approached by civilians—"
The TV showed something—probably his picture. His face. His very recognizable face. Broadcasting to everyone with cable.
*Perfect. Just perfect.*
Tomorrow had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. Like, exponentially more complicated. Like they might need to be in the next state by morning.
Beside him, Anaya stirred in her sleep, mumbling something that sounded like "Papa" and possibly "cookies" before settling back down with a tiny snore.
Evan held her a little tighter and stared at the ceiling, listening to his own face being broadcast on the evening news, and wondered how long they had before someone recognized him.
Before their one day of normal came crashing down.
Before Morrison found them.
The answer, he suspected, was: not long enough.
*Great. Just great. We're so screwed.*
But hey, at least they had sandwiches for tomorrow.