She listens to him snore, his chest gently rising then falling. The kid’s been asleep since she walked in the door. Easiest fifty bucks ever.
But then she hears murmuring. From where? She has no idea.
She looks down, sees the dust ruffle sway.
She kneels and pulls the fabric aside, unsure of what’ll be lurking below.
Turns out it’s a little boy. The same little boy that’s sleeping right above.
She watches the boy put his finger to his lips, watches him point upwards.
“That’s not me,” he whispers.
She sits back. Shocked.
Who the hell is it then?
The Weekday One Hundred 