Shattered Read Online Free Page B

room behind the counter. “And keep an eye out for shoplifters. Kids are the worst. If you actually see them pocket something, you can ask them to turn out their pockets or empty their bags. Or you can call the cops.” Another snort. “Not that they do anything.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œIf it isn’t busy, you can stock the shelves or tidy. I’d rather you didn’t read, or talk on your cell or text when there are customers in the store. But I can’t do much about that, can I?”
    â€œI like tidying,” I said. “And I don’t have a cell. And I hate reading.”
    â€œExcellent.” Mr. Hardcastle folded my résumé and stuffed it in a drawer. “See you tomorrow at ten then. Don’t be late. Payday is the first and the fifteenth. We’re open every day but Christmas and New Year’s.” He stuck out his hand and we shook. His hand was cold and damp, like a dead jellyfish. It was all I could do not to pull away and wipe my hand on my pants. “Welcome to the Castle Gifts family,” he said.
    â€œThanks,” I said. He turned his back on me and went into the back room. As I left the store, I picked up a little pencil-top eraser in the shape of a Mountie and slipped it into my pocket. I didn’t need it, but it felt good in my hand. Something else the old March wouldn’t do—steal something useless.
    Poetry Girl and her cat were gone when I passed the corner. I wondered where she slept. Were there shelters that allowed pets, or did she sleep in a doorway or in the park? Did she sell enough poems to buy food for herself and the cat? And how did you sell a poem anyway?
    I thought about that all the way to the hospital. How different our lives were, but also how messed up. By the time I got to the hospital it was close to 6:00 PM . I was counting on Tyler’s mom and dad being at home with his younger brothers and sisters. All five of them. Tyler’s parents are Catholics. Devout Catholics. Which explains the big family. They were probably at home saying grace, holding hands around the kitchen table. Praying for Tyler.
    Eating together is a big deal in Tyler’s house. Nobody eats standing up at the sink. Nobody nukes a pizza pop and eats it in the car on the way to hockey or piano lessons or choir practice. Tyler’s mom makes dinner, and they all sit down together. Every single night. It’s kind of miraculous. I used to love going there for Sunday dinner. The praying didn’t bother me. I just shut my eyes and held hands with Tyler on one side and his youngest sister Tamara on the other. His hand was always cool and dry; hers was always hot and sticky. The words flowed over me like a summer breeze. I always said “Amen” with everybody else. I was going to miss those dinners.
    Now, as I approached the hospital’s front doors, I realized that I had no idea whether Tyler was even allowed to have visitors.
    â€œFour-oh-four,” the woman at the information desk said when I asked for his room number. “North Wing. You family? He’s only allowed family.”
    â€œCousin,” I said. “I’m his cousin. From Regina. I came as soon as I could. He’s, like, my favorite cousin.”
    The woman frowned at me. She’d probably heard the “cousin” story a million times. Her phone rang and while she answered it, I walked away. The elevator to the fourth floor smelled bad—like sweat and antiseptic and maybe blood. I pressed the button 4 with my elbow and used the hand sanitizer before I went into the ward.
    A young nurse pushing a meds cart smiled at me. Her nametag said Rosa, R.N. “You look a bit lost,” she said. “Who are you looking for?”
    â€œTyler McKenna. Room four-oh-four,”
    I said. “I’m his cousin.”
    â€œOh, too bad. You just missed his folks.” She pointed down the hall. “Last room on the