People Live Here: JONAS - MARKED

✨ Content is free—but birds like snacks.

This story is told through the eyes of a neighbor who called the motel home too.

JONAS - MARKED 

We met him in the Abbey's Pizzeria parking lot. Mom giving me the whole lecture about  being good, I didn’t fight her. I didn't say anything back. We got out of the car and she  moved a half step faster than I could walk. I had to half jog to keep up. 

I spotted him first—leaning against a dented truck, arms folded. Solid. Broad. His hands  looked strong enough to break concrete. I straightened my back. I wanted to carry myself  like that. 

Caleb’s grin barely shifted as he watched me. Mom kept walking, but I didn’t. I took him in —the way he moved, steady, effortless, like strength was something he carried without  thinking. I wanted that. I sank my hands into my hoodie, trying to settle into my own weight  the same way. 

By the end of the night, I barely spoke. I just watched. I studied Caleb. When Mom went to  the bathroom, I caught him glancing over. 

“You like Snoop?” he asked. 

I blinked, caught off guard. 

“Yeah.” 

He nodded slowly. 

“Dre?” 

“Yeah.” 

Another nod. That was all. I’d passed some test or something. Caleb took a sip of his drink  and looked back at the bowling lanes, saying nothing more. 

I never forgot that moment. 

When we moved into the motel, I didn’t just look up to Caleb—I followed him. I studied how  he stood, how he moved, how he took up space without trying. I saw how people glanced  at him with respect. I was only eight, but I paid close attention. 

Caleb rubbed his neck and took a deep breath. 

“You sure about this?” 

Mom didn’t even look up. 

“No.” 

I smirked. Caleb shook his head and hauled another box inside. 

The room was small. Too small. I dragged my backpack onto the futon and sat down. The  frame groaned under me. 

“I give it two months before I kill you both,” Mom said, tossing a blanket on the floor.

I grinned. 

“One month, tops.” 

Caleb snorted and cracked open a root beer. He handed one to me with a wink. 

There was a rat problem here. Not the ones that scurry and hide—these rats just watch  you. I saw the first one sitting in the middle of the kitchenette floor, whiskers twitching. I  nudged Mom. 

“It’s staring.” 

She looked up, scowling. 

“Fucker.” 

I threw an empty can. Missed. The rat didn’t even flinch. It just kept watching. 

Caleb stood up, exhaled through his nose, and stomped hard. The rat bolted under the  stove, dust flying. 

The next morning, Caleb pulled the fridge out with one hand. He checked the gaps, nodded  like he was solving a puzzle. No traps. No poison. Just a hammer. 

I watched everything. Mom hated the motel. She wanted out. But Caleb wasn’t afraid of  filth. Not the mold. Not the clogged sinks. Not the black-streaked porcelain or the things  that lived in the dark. 

When the toilet backed up one day, Caleb didn’t hesitate. He just stuck his hand in. The  water was gray, with fur floating and black mold climbing the walls. Lena stood in the  doorway, arms folded. 

“No gloves?” she said. 

“It’s just a clog,” Caleb replied, reaching further. 

Mom winced. 

“Caleb, there’s fur in it.” 

He pulled his hand back, wiped it on his jeans, turned the valve. 

“Fixed.” 

I watched, eyes wide. Caleb wiped his hands, cracked his knuckles, and walked away like it  was nothing. I took notes. 

One time, I sat next to him. I kicked at the gravel and watched the way he stared past  everything. 

“You ever gonna teach me?” I asked. 

Caleb blinked slow, took a drag of his cigarette, and said, 

“Teach you what?” 

I flexed my fingers, made a fist. 

“To be like you.”

He exhaled smoke and shook his head. 

“Be better.” 

I frowned. I didn’t understand yet. 

Caleb always sketched—always had a pencil in his hand, music playing, lines forming on  paper. It started small, just something to do. 

One night, Mom looked over his shoulder as he shaded a drawing, Tupac playing low in the  background, and said, 

“You should be a tattoo artist.” 

Those words hit me. Something clicked. 

I saw it before Caleb did. I saw the way his eyes lit up—like cash register chimes. The next morning, I grabbed a Sharpie and started drawing on my arm before school. Every morning after that, because if Caleb was gonna do it, I was gonna do it too.