Wonder ❄️ | h.s. |

Chapter Four

"But I don't want to go," Harry whines, leaning on the kitchen counter. The afternoon sun pouring in from the window behind him is giving him the illusion of a halo. Ironic.

We've been arguing this back and forth for the past hour. His persistence may truly be the only match for my stubbornness, but this is one issue I will not budge on. He has to learn to deal with consequences of his actions: he broke the town law, he has to do community service.

"As far as I'm concern, you don't really have a choice," I respond, pouring myself a cup of coffee. I don't normally drink caffeine in the afternoon, but my shift this morning was brutal.

Harry's arms are crossed like a toddler who's mom refused to buy him a toy. "But it's so unfair! And how would that cop even know?"

"Because he's probably already told them to expect you. Besides, it's not gonna kill you to do a bit of volunteering."

"It could..." he grumbles.

The first sip of warm goodness hits my lips, making me smile. Not even Harry's temper tantrum can ruin that. "Shut up."

"But it's gonna be such a time commitment!"

Now he's just grasping at straws. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you already had pressing plans and can't squeeze in helping someone other than yourself between Netflix and complaining."

"You're not funny," Harry says, unamused, brushing past me.

Now that he's away from the window, I can truly take in the state of his clothes. "Neither are you. Also you really need to figure out what you're doing with your clothes."

"What's wrong with them?" he asks, offended.

Wearing the same outfit for 72 hours will make clothes pretty dirty, but it seems his time in the park last night did him no favors. He must've slipped several times in the snow, because his once sharply neat pants are now splattered with mud. And the wrinkles run so deep, I think they might be forming mountains.

"They're disgusting. I'm surprised there aren't literal flies following you around," I joke.

"They're the only clothes I have, we've been over this," Harry states, flopping down onto the couch: zero regard for the dirt he's distributing around.

"Well then wash them or something. The washing machine's down the hall."

He freezes as if I just asked him to murder a man. "Washing Machine? This is Dry Clean Only."

"The machine has a gentle mode," I brush off his concerns.

"This is Gucci."

Ooo, fancy...

Rolling my eyes I say, "Cool. And?"

"I can't throw a $5,000 Gucci suit on gentle mode," Harry states as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and I'm the idiot.

But in an attempt to be the bigger person, I don't take his bait: "Then looks like you're gonna have to borrow clothes, because I refuse to bring you out in public looking like that."

"Is there not a Dry Cleaner's in town?" he asks casually, looking at his phone.

Still standing in the entrance to the hallway, I cross my arms. "There is, but do you have the money for dry cleaning?"

"Can't you spot me?"

Seriously? He wants more money?

"I'm already feeding you. No, I will not pay for your overpriced suit to get cleaned."