Re: Sonrisa: Hunter R & Cris M
Hunter wasn't going to answer that question. He wasn't protecting his father, he was protecting himself. Two months was not a long time, and twenty years to get to know someone was. He stared out through the windshield into the quiet dark and was poignant in his silence. That was as much as he was going to say about it.
The square lights of the diner window were staring back at him almost before he had a minute to understand the direction they were going, and the car was coming to a stop before the rearview mirror had done more than narrow the road in the distance. Hunter's face contorted in confusion, and he seemed to compress down into his windbreaker as he squinted around suspiciously, as if the diner had become a secret cop conspiracy when he hadn't been looking.
By now, Hunter thought that he had outgrown the well-meaning cop having the down-to-earth chat with the runaway, like the painting on postcards, but he would be the first to admit that he didn't know what the cops in Repose were like. The last guy he remembered had been fat and impatient, a nice guy that stayed willingly clueless about stuff. When the door opened Hunter stared at the hand, and avoided it as he edged out of the car. "Why?" He really didn't like the tight arm around his shoulders, seizing up at the friendly gesture and walking like a doomed convict toward the mouthwatering smell of the old griddles. "What for?" Generally Hunter assumed that when people were nice to him they needed something. Hunter had no clue what he had that this guy could want. Probably nothing.