Exception

A piece of paper. Crinkly-edged, yellowish, fading print, crumpled, folded in a pocket for the last half hour.

“Are you Mr. Carter?”

“Yes.”

Jeremy swallowed, eyes resting on the paper in his hand hesitantly. “A man said you’ve got a room.”

Carter stood on the other side of a long desk. He squinted at Jeremy through glasses too big for him, taking in the dusty, though presentable, boy in front of him. Brown trousers, boots, tan suspenders, grey wool shirt, jacket. “Got money?”

“I’ve got three dollars and sixty-two cents, but I’ll be getting a job soon.” He pulled the money out of his pocket and held it out for Carter to see.

Carter eyed it with some disdain. “If you can get a job, you mean.” He looked up and grimaced a little, turning to the wall behind him. There, nails stuck out of the wall looking hazardous, holding rusty silver and bronze keys. All but three pegs were empty. “Fine, boy.” He pulled off the brown one and turned, tossing it to Jeremy. “You’ve got enough for four days rent.”

Jeremy nodded and hesitated before emptying his pocket into Carter’s outstretched hand.

“I’ll give you a week.” The owner of the boardinghouse spoke roughly; this was a stretch, not ordinary.

“Thanks,” said Jeremy, seriously.

Carter nodded, fingered the money, and stuck it in his pocket. “Then you’re gone.”