Logan scraps

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"What're ye doing?" asks Logan, strolling into Nanny's guest room.

""Packing a few things for you,"" answers the closet.

Logan stops, blinks.

Nanny appears with an armload of neatly folded fabric. "I rescued the clothes and tools from your flats, dear."

"Oh, uh, thanks."

"You're welcome." She stacks the garments in Logan's standard-issue duffel. "I couldn't find that pretty green shirt of yours, though."

"That's 'cause it got wrecked a couple of winters ago." Rubs the back of his neck. "Why were you looking for it?"

"Because the colour accents your eyes beautifully."

Logan's face heats; he ducks his head.

Nanny tosses—

Logan catches something soft and bright green.

"It took some doing, but I found a replacement."

Logan unfurls the shirt, hides behind it. "Thanks," he rasps.

"You're very welcome, love."

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"You know this's completely fucked up, ay?"

"How's that?"

"You hired /**me**, a known criminal, to stalk your /**thirteen-year-old** daughter."

"The word is 'chaperone', Scarecrow," amends Jimmy.

"I'm only a chaperone if she knows I'm there and she doesn't."

"Then consider yourself her guardian angel for a night."

Logan rolls his eyes. "Flattery's nice, but no matter what you call it, this's still fucked up."

Jimmy huffs. "Just make sure she gets home with her virtue intact." A nasty, nasty grin. "Feel free to punch his ticket to Emergency if he tries /**anything**."

Logan gives a mocking salute. "Yessir, Captain Overprotective, sir!"

"Just go."

With a grin, Logan saunters off.

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"—share the washroom one floor down, the kitchen on the ground floor, and the laundry in the basement." She unlocks the door to the attic room, gestures Logan up a handful of narrow stairs.

He steps up, inspects.

Single bed.

Dresser.

Semi-easy chair.

Mirror.

Rug.

""Power's included, but if you turn the A/C down past twenty-seven, I'll have to charge ye extra. Rent's always due on the fifteenth and if you don't pay on time, I put your stuff on the kerb.""

Logan finishes his tour, returns to the landing.

"Acceptable?"

Logan nods. "It'll do."

She holds out a hand. "First two months'."

Logan fishes in a pocket, counts out the bills.

She tucks them away, passes Logan the key, declares, "All yours."

"Thanks," replies Logan.

She shuffles out.

Logan locks and chains the door, steps out of his shoes, hops up the stairs, and dumps his backpack next to the foot of the bed.

He stretches his arms over his head, flops face-down on the bed, does his best starfish impression.

Home—or close enough—at last and it only took seven hundred and eighty-three days.

Logan sighs contently and lets himself doze.