Chapter 4: The Yellow Rain Cover Held Above A Silent Threshold
The yellow cover remained above the glass threshold, bright enough to hurt my eyes through the rain. Trent held it by one corner, letting the nylon sag toward the lobby floor while the other hand kept the antique brass key turning slowly around his index finger. The cover was less than twenty feet away. I could see the dry folds, the black fastening straps, even the small dark smear near one edge. It had been meant for my chair. It had been close enough to use.
Instead, I sat in the exact center of the sunken courtyard with water running from my hair into my eyes and down the collar of my shirt. My hands rested on the armrests because they had nowhere else to go. The joystick console showed no light. When I pressed it, nothing answered—not a hum, not a twitch, not the faint click that had become familiar through months of use.
Behind Trent, the lobby glowed with fireplace light. The glass doors reflected the crowd gathered inside, but the warmth beyond them was real. I could see it in the dry leather sofas, the polished floor, and the members standing close to the threshold without shivering. Their faces were turned toward me, then toward the gate, then back to Trent's hands.
Garrett had not moved away from the wrought-iron bars. Rain streamed over his shoulders and down the sleeves of his jacket. Beyond him, fifty Harley-Davidsons stood in the wet street, their dark bodies shining beneath the storm. The engines had fallen to a low, uneven rumble, but the sound still pressed against my ribs.
I tried the joystick again.
The console stayed dead.
A tremor moved through my arms. I drew them closer to my body, but the cotton shirt clung coldly to my skin. My shoes rested on the footplate, surrounded by shallow water that had gathered between the cobblestones. Each time I shifted, the chair gave a tiny mechanical click and settled back into place. The wheels did not turn.
Garrett's attention dropped to the water around me. Then it moved to the cover in Trent's hand. His fingers tightened around the iron bars. I watched that sequence because it was easier than watching Trent's face.
The brass key flashed once when lightning whitened the courtyard. It was old and heavy, with a narrow shaft and a worn bow. Trent lifted it slightly, as if the object itself had answered the pressure outside. The lobby door remained locked.
One of the fraternity members stepped near him. Trent did not look away from the courtyard. He raised the cover higher, keeping it dry above the floor. The yellow nylon made a clean shape against the fireplace glow. Water ran down the outside of the glass between us, breaking the image into wavering strips.
I leaned forward and reached for the console with two fingers. The plastic was cold and slick. A drop fell from my knuckle onto the black surface. I pressed the power switch. Nothing happened. I pressed again until my fingertip hurt.
The door's metal frame gave a faint shudder.
Someone inside had touched the handle.
The rain struck the glass so hard that I could barely see Trent's mouth, but I saw his hand close around the brass key. His other hand gathered the yellow cover against his chest. The threshold was no longer still. The latch shifted, and a thin line of warm air reached through the opening before the door stopped.
Garrett pushed against the gate.
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The wrought iron groaned. Trent's hand moved toward the lock.
I kept my eyes on the key as the door began to open.
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