The girl looked down.
Hank asked gently:
“What's your name, sweetheart?”
The woman answered.
“Maya.”
The girl looked up sharply.
Hank noticed.
Maybe it was her name.
Maybe not.
He asked the child:
“Maya?”
She gave a tiny nod.
The woman said:
“See?”
Hank did not look at her.
He held out one hand.
“Marker?”
The woman hesitated.
Then laughed.
“Fine.”
She returned it.
Hank crouched again.
The little girl held out the cast.
He placed the marker tip exactly where she indicated.
“Hank.”
He wrote slowly.
H.
A.
N.
K.
The child watched.
When he finished, her shoulders dropped half an inch.
He handed the marker back.
“Done.”
The girl whispered:
“Thank you.”
The woman grabbed her shoulder.
“Now we're leaving.”
The cast rotated.
Sunlight struck the top surface.
Hank saw writing.
Not random signatures anymore.
A pattern.
The names were arranged vertically.
Hank.
Above his fresh signature:
Eagle.
Leo.
Preacher.
Hank stared.
First letters.
H.
E.
L.
P.
His stomach tightened.
Below his name, two more signatures had been squeezed sideways.
Otis.
Mack.
H-E-L-P.
O-M.
Hank initially thought:
HELP OM?
Then he saw the pencil bracket.
Very faint.
Running beside the first four names only.
H-E-L-P.
Below it, another tiny pencil line pointed toward Otis and Mack.
O-M.
The cast moved again.
Near the underside were two numbers scratched directly into the plaster.
18.
Hank looked up.
Across the highway stood an old two-story motel.
Faded turquoise doors.
External walkway.
A large sign missing one letter.
Twenty-four rooms.
The doors were numbered.
Hank could see 16.
The girl followed his gaze.
That confirmed everything.
The woman tugged her.
“Say goodbye.”
The child looked at Hank.
Not dramatic.
No tears.
Just waiting.
Hank gently touched one finger against his own fresh signature.
Then the next letters above it.
H.
E.
L.
P.