People Live Here: JACK - DEALDONE

✨ Content is free—but birds like snacks.

Outside, something scurries along the walls. A scratching sound. A quiet, steady gnaw. We both hear it. Neither of us say anything. — Sarlon White

JACK - DEALDONE 

The sink has a yellow ring in the basin from sitting water. There's a bloating a piece of bread  that made it in. Steam coils from the faucet, the water pressure reaches desperation. 

I scrub fast. My fingernail catches on a battered coffee cup, scraping over something crusted —thick, unmovable. Flecks of dried ketchup hit my cheek, I scrub faster. 

The cabinet door stays open. I want to see them coming. 

Rats don’t just show up. They remember. They retrace their steps pressing into old  footprints, following paths worn smooth by instinct. Once they find a way in, they never  forget. 

Aimee crouches low, tail rigid. Morty twitches, coiled tight, waiting. The hole under the sink  gapes, dark and yawning. I dumped litter in there—a warning shot. Won’t stop them.  They’ve chewed through lead pipes before. What’s a clump of piss-soaked grit against  hunger? 

I remember two years ago. Waiting at work, scrolling to clear my screen. An email, opened  without thought. A few lines of text. The truth didn’t hit like a bomb. It lodged between my  eyes like a tablespoon jammed in the butterknife slot—there, but wrong. 

I kept circling back. Pressing down to see if it’d sink. It didn’t. 

Now, the cabinet door shifts—a slow exhale from the dark. 

Cold air licks at my ankles. I grip the counter. Steady my breathing. Thought I could push it  aside. Keep moving. Keep working. Keep my hands busy, keep my mind obedient. 

But it’s like the rats. 

They slip through cracks. Settle in the walls. Wait. 

Something scrapes beneath the floor—a dull, steady gnaw. A rat’s incisors never stop  growing. If they don’t chew, they starve. If they’re hungry enough, they turn on each other. 

I wipe my hands on the damp, tacky dish towel. The kitchenette feels smaller. The walls too  close. 

Norway rats can tread water for days. They drag themselves up through sewer pipes, blind  and wet in the light. Hunger makes them bold. They bite the weak, the still, the ones who  don’t fight back. 

The hole under the sink stretches open, black-mouthed, starving. Aimee and Morty stay  wired, waiting. But it’s not about what moves. It’s about what stays.

I crouch, staring into the dark. Cold air seeps out to meet me. 

I tell myself I'd know what to do if one came snarling from the dark. Truth is, I wouldn't. I'd  kick back, scramble onto the counter, send dishes crashing. Maybe scream. Maybe freeze. 

Behind me, footsteps shuffle,. June says “You still on about the rats?” “They’re still here.” I tell her. 

She steps up beside me, arms crossed, eyes on the hole under the sink. “They live better  than we do.” 

I push up from my squat, shaking out my hands, but the sticky feel won’t leave my skin.  “They’re patient.” I say. 

June shifts, rubbing her stomach absently, eyes flicking to the cabinets, the sagging walls.  She says “Feels weird, you know?” 

I wait. She doesn’t need prompting when something’s circling her mind. “Being here. Being—” she exhales and says “Pregnant. In this place.” I lean against the counter, watching her. “Yeah.” I tell her. 

Her fingers drum against her stomach, restless. “I used to think about what this would be  like. Carrying a kid. Where I’d be. Who’d be there.” She glances at me. “This ain’t it.” 

I don’t have a good answer for that. 

She laughs under her breath, no humor in it. “The fucking clinic, Jack. Reiner, with his fake ass smile. That tight little nod like I’m a job to get through.” 

I say nothing. Just listen. 

June shakes her head. “He doesn’t care. Not really. Not about me. Just about the process.  The fucking statistics. The way he talked about Theo like he wasn’t even real yet.” She  shifts her weight, exhales hard. “This place, that doctor—makes me feel like I’m growing  something in a fucking petri dish. Something separate from me. Not mine.” 

I rub at my jaw, glancing at the hole under the sink, the slow, gaping breath of the cabinet  door. “We could go somewhere else.” 

June snorts. “Like where?” 

The room settles into silence. The rats don’t come. Not yet. We just stand there, the weight  of it pressing in, the motel breathing around us. 

I shift my weight, rub my palm over my jaw. The words feel too small for how heavy it all is. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Somewhere better.”

June lets out a breath, not quite a laugh. “Better.” She looks around the kitchenette, at the  chipped plates, the sink full of yellowed water, at me. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” 

She leans against the counter, fingers drumming lightly against the ceramic. Then softer— quieter— “I just don’t like being on display for him.” 

I nod. I don’t need to ask who him is. 

Dr. Reiner with his clipboard and 24-millimeter smile, with his tight nods and sterile  reassurances. The way he talked to her, over her, around her. Like she was a chart to be  updated. A case to move along. 

“I get that,” I say. “I was hoping—” I shake my head. “I don’t know. I was hoping there’d be  more of a connection. Something real.” 

June exhales through her nose. “Yeah.” 

“We could find someone else,” I offer. “A different doctor.” 

Her lips press together, the thought sitting between us for a long beat. Then, finally, she  sighs, shakes her head. 

“No, no, it’s fine. I just needed to talk about it.” 

I study her, the way her fingers tap against the countertop, restless. She’s letting it go, or at  least, letting me think she is. 

I don’t push. 

Outside, something scurries along the walls. A scratching sound. A quiet, steady gnaw. We both hear it. Neither of us say anything.

— Sarlon White

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