He doesn’t know how much more he can take of this, this life - this existence.

Logan stands in the doorway to yet another motel room, in yet another backwater town. The walls are cast yellow and dingy by the bare light bulb, with stains of damp and god-knows-what on the ceiling. The threadbare carpet barely muffles his steps and he walks into the room and sinks down on the lumpy bed.

The fight circuit had been barely a challenge this year but he’s hoping to make a final haul before he gets his supplies and heads to the cabin for winter. One more month of fighting, drinking and screwing – all in that order, then he can settle in and try to figure out who he was or how to end it.

888

He’d noticed the butts and the stench of menthols before, only now was he figuring the source. The kid was sat with her legs through the railing of the landing, a hamper of laundry beside her and a cigarette between her fingers, head resting against the bars. She was too young to be smoking – couldn’t be older than twelve if even that, he thought before reminding himself it was none of his business. When he’d got to the top of the stairs, she quickly hid the cigarette beside her and leaned back on her hands, watching him as he got to the door.

“Hi”*

“Why’d you hide the cigarette?”* He’d asked before he could think better of it.

“This place is full of rats, I didn’t want my old man to find out – got enough problems”*

It was then he noticed the bruising around her eye; she turned away when she saw him looking and tipped her head until her hair hid the mark, “What happened?”*

“I fell off my bike”* Irritated by her reply, Logan turned and unlocked the door.

“Hey” He stopped, not turning around but waiting to hear what she had to say, “don’t tell my dad about the cigarette – okay?”*

888