Milly and Jr Burger

An introduction to Milly while babysitting the Jr Burger.

         Milly walked up the narrow sidewalk toward Lieutenant Colonel MacDonald’s duplex, the kind the base called “housing” and everyone else called identical boxes with different doormats. The porch light was on. The curtains were drawn. A wreath tried too hard.
         She should have said no.
         Mrs. MacDonald had called late afternoon, voice crisp and polished like she was reading from a script.
         “I need a last-minute sitter. Four hours. I’ll be back around midnight.”
         Milly had already been halfway into her automatic refusal. She had homework, she had plans, she had a perfectly good Friday night of being left alone. Then the woman added, almost casually, “I pay a hundred dollars.”
         Milly had stared at the little spiral notebook on her desk where she tracked gigs and what families actually paid versus what they called “generous.” She stared at the page where she had written NEW BOOTS??? and drawn a question mark big enough to hook a fish.
         A hundred dollars was the kind of money that made you take a job you knew you would regret.
         Also, Milly knew who Mrs. MacDonald was.
         Everyone did.
         New on station. Four months. The kind of officer’s wife who could walk into the commissary and make the air colder by existing. The kind who said “enlisted” like it was a category of furniture.
         Milly paused at the bottom step. She smoothed her vest. She brushed her hair behind her ears with both thumbs. Black on black on black, chosen on purpose. This is me.
         Her pale skin and jet-black hair, dyed dark rose at the tips, earned her double-takes everywhere. Dark makeup circled her eyes and faded toward her temples, like a bruise that had decided to become art. A thin gold chain ran from a piercing in her left earlobe across her cheek to a stud on her nose. It caught the porch light and threw it back in a sharp bright line.
         She knocked.
         The door opened a few inches. Then more.
         Mrs. MacDonald blinked like she was trying to focus on something unpleasant. Her gaze traveled over Milly’s hair, the chain, the jeans, then snapped back to Milly’s face with the expression people got when they found a spider in their bathtub.
         “I’m sorry,” the woman said, already lifting her hand like she could wave the whole situation away. “There must be a mistake.”
         The door began to swing shut.
         “No.” Milly’s voice came out sharper than she meant. Her hand landed on the edge of the door. She did not slam it back. She just stopped it. “No mistake. You called me. Remember?”
         Mrs. MacDonald’s lips tightened. “Mrs. Hall said you were… good with pets.”
         Milly almost laughed. Mrs. Hall’s poodle was the size of a toaster and had once peed on Milly’s boots out of spite.
         “And Mrs. Hall said I’m responsible,” Milly said, tone even. “Which is why you called. Because we both know I’m the only sitter you’re going to find this late.”
         Mrs. MacDonald stared at her like she was weighing whether to argue. Milly felt the familiar pressure behind her eyes. It was small at first, a warmth that showed up when someone tried to dismiss her.
         Milly held the woman’s gaze.
         For a heartbeat the world sharpened. Edges looked cleaner. Colors seemed brighter. Sound felt slightly closer.
         A faint yellow ring flickered around Mrs. MacDonald’s irises.
         It was not a flashlight glow. It was like someone had drawn a thin circle in gold ink and lit it from behind glass.
         Mrs. MacDonald’s posture changed. It was not dramatic. Her shoulders went back. Her chin lifted. The irritation smoothed into something practiced and polite.
         “Yes,” Mrs. MacDonald said softly, as if the first thirty seconds had not happened. She opened the door wider and held out a hand. “Yes. Of course. I’m Mrs. MacDonald. I’m happy to meet you, Milly. You come highly recommended. Please come in.”
         Milly took her hand automatically, because refusing would make this strange in a different way. The handshake was cool and brief.
         Milly lifted one eyebrow, just slightly.
         Mrs. MacDonald either did not notice or chose not to.
         Inside smelled like candles trying to cover something else, maybe cleaner. The living room looked staged. Magazines were fanned on a coffee table. Couch pillows were lined up like soldiers.
         A boy stomped down the stairs like he was trying to break each step.
         Donald Chester MacDonald.
         Jr. Burger.
         Eight years old, and already carrying the weight of being disliked.
         He took one look at Milly and his face twisted with delight. It was the kind kids had when they realized they could hurt someone without consequences.
         “No,” he said loudly. “No. She’s a witch.”
         “Donny,” Mrs. MacDonald warned, but there was no real force behind it.
         “She’s a witch!” he shouted again, then bolted back upstairs, laughing. “Witch babysitter! Witch babysitter!”
         Mrs. MacDonald pressed her lips into a thin line. “The ladies at the Officer’s Club said you are the best babysitter on base.”
         Milly’s mouth twitched. She had babysat for exactly two officer families, and both had been desperate. “That’s… kind of you.”
         “I have a list,” Mrs. MacDonald said immediately, like politeness was wasted time. “No sugar after six. He has to bathe before bed. No video games. No…”
         “I just need to know what time you’ll be back,” Milly cut in, not rude, just firm. “Any allergies. Where the emergency numbers are.”
         Mrs. MacDonald did not seem to appreciate being interrupted in her own house. Then, with visible effort, she continued, “Around midnight. No allergies. Numbers on the fridge. If he’s asleep when we return, there’s an extra twenty-five dollars.”
         “Noted,” Milly said.
         Donny appeared again behind his mother like a tiny demon in a polo shirt. He stuck up his middle finger. It was practiced. He stuck out his tongue. He stomped his foot.
         Milly did not react.
         Donny stomped again, unsatisfied. “Witch,” he muttered, then marched away like he owned the place.
         Mr. MacDonald came in from the kitchen in uniform pants and a dress shirt. He adjusted his cufflinks with calm precision. His gaze swept Milly once and lingered on the gold chain. Not disgusted. Not impressed. Just assessing.
         “Evening,” he said.
         “Evening,” Milly echoed.
         The parents left with a final reminder about midnight and the bonus. The door closed with a clean click.
         For a full second, the house was quiet.
         Then Donny detonated.
         He sprinted into the living room, launched himself onto the couch, bounced, and aimed for Milly’s shoulder like he was going to tackle her.
         Milly shifted half an inch.
         Donny slammed into the couch arm instead and tumbled onto the carpet with an offended yelp.
         “You moved!” he accused.
         “I’m allowed to move,” Milly said calmly.
         Donny scrambled up, cheeks flushed. His eyes glittered with mischief and something sharper underneath. Milly recognized the kind of anger kids got when they suspected nobody liked them.
         He raced into the kitchen, came back with a handful of crackers, and flung them onto the floor in front of her.
         Milly watched them scatter.
         “Oops,” Donny said, too sweetly. “I dropped them.”
         Milly did not respond.
         Donny waited. When she still did not react, he got louder. He ran circles around the coffee table, yelling nonsense, bumping furniture, making sure she knew he was there.
         When she did not chase him, he escalated. He grabbed a baseball from a basket near the TV stand and hurled it at her head.
         Milly’s hand shot up.
         She caught it cleanly without turning her head.
         The ball thudded into her palm like it belonged there.
         Donny froze, shocked.
         Milly looked at the baseball. Then at him. “This is mine now,” she said.
         Donny’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked like he could not decide whether to be impressed or furious.
         He chose furious.
         He bolted upstairs.
         Milly heard drawers slam. Feet thumped. She heard the unmistakable sound of a child searching for a weapon.
         A moment later, Donny appeared at the top of the stairs holding a neon green super-soaker like it was a rifle. He crouched and peeked through the banister, tongue poking out slightly as he lined up his shot.
         Milly stayed on the couch like she had not noticed him. The TV droned softly.
         Donny crept down the stairs one careful step at a time. He reached the bottom, pressed his back to the wall beside the living room doorway, and inhaled like a soldier preparing to breach.
         Then he lunged into the room, gun raised.
         Milly turned her head.
         Their eyes met.
         The pressure behind her eyes flared, stronger this time. It was hot and immediate, like someone pressing a thumb into the center of her skull.
         “Freeze,” she said.
         It was not a shout. It was low and final.
         A yellow ring lit around Donny’s irises.
         This time it did not flicker. It snapped on clean, bright, unmistakable.
         Donny stopped mid-step. His arms locked. His finger rested on the trigger, but did not pull.
         At first, Milly thought he was faking. Kids faked. Kids lied. Kids played.
         Milly stood. She walked over slowly. She circled him.
         Donny did not blink.
         His chest rose and fell. His eyes tracked her in tiny frightened movements, but his body stayed rigid, as if the command had slipped under his skin and seized every muscle.
         The air in the room felt thicker. Wrong.
         “What…” Milly whispered.
         Donny’s lower lip trembled. Tears gathered in his eyes.
         Milly swallowed. A game, she told herself. This is just a game.
         But her heartbeat was too loud.
         “We’re going to play a game,” Milly said, more to herself than to him.
         She stepped close until she was directly in front of him. The yellow ring was clear now.
         Milly lifted a finger to his nose. “Donny,” she said, and her voice surprised her. It sounded steadier than she felt. “You’re going to clean up your messes. Pick up your toys. Take a bath. Go to bed.”
         The words felt heavy in her mouth.
         She hesitated.
         Donny’s tears slid down his cheeks.
         Milly wanted peace. She wanted the night to end.
         “And sleep,” Milly added.
         The yellow ring flared brighter, bright enough to make her squint.
         Milly felt something click, like a lock turning.
         She lowered her hand. “Move,” she whispered, gentle, like she was releasing a trap.
         Donny blinked.
         Then he turned, set the super-soaker down with careful precision, and walked into the kitchen.
         Milly followed, half-expecting him to bolt, to scream, to snap out of it and laugh in her face.
         He did not.
         He picked up crackers one by one. He wiped the counter. He put toys into bins with the quiet focus of a machine.
         It was terrifying.
         He did a full hour of chores without complaint, without diversion, without being eight years old.
         Then he went upstairs, ran a bath, washed himself without splashing or arguing, put on pajamas, and returned briefly to place his dirty clothes in the hamper.
         Milly stood at the bottom of the stairs and called up softly, “Goodnight.”
         Donny’s voice drifted down, flat and calm. “Goodnight.”
         Then silence.
         Milly stood in the living room, staring at the TV without seeing it. Her eyes ached like she had stared into bright light too long. A dull headache throbbed behind her forehead.
         What did I just do.
         She tried to tell herself it was normal. Adults said kids listened when you were firm.
         But she had seen the ring.
         She had felt something move when she spoke.
         She did not like thinking about it.
         So she did not.
         Midnight came late.
         The parents returned around one, keys jangling. Mrs. MacDonald stepped inside first, looking ready to be disappointed. Lt Col MacDonald followed, face neutral.
         They stopped short when they saw the living room.
         Clean. Quiet. Not a toy in sight.
         Mrs. MacDonald’s eyes widened. “He’s… asleep?”
         Milly nodded, forcing calm. “He went to bed on time.”
         Lt Col MacDonald released a slow breath that sounded like disbelief. “She’s the only sitter who’s gotten him asleep,” he said. “You get the bonus.”
         Mrs. MacDonald handed Milly the hundred, then another twenty-five.
         Milly tucked the bills into her pocket. She was ready to leave. Her headache had deepened into a pulse.
         Then Lt Col MacDonald looked at her, really looked, and said, “We’d like you to babysit again.”
         Milly should have said no.
         Instead, the thought slipped out of her mouth like a mistake.
         “It should be another hundred.”
         She did not mean to say it out loud.
         Lt Col MacDonald’s eyes met hers.
         The yellow ring flashed around his irises, quick but unmistakable, like a match flaring and dying.
         His expression softened into warmth that did not belong there. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. He held it out as if it had been his idea.
         Milly’s breath caught.
         She took it automatically, fingers numb.
         “No.” She tried to hand it back. “No, I didn’t. I can’t.”
         “You earned it,” he said cheerfully, too cheerfully. “The house is clean. The boy is asleep. You earned it.”
         Mrs. MacDonald watched, confused but pleased.
         Milly shoved the money into her pocket like it burned. “Goodnight,” she said, voice tight.
         “Goodnight,” Mrs. MacDonald echoed.
         Milly left with her heart pounding. The porch light behind her spilled onto the sidewalk like a spotlight.
         She walked fast. Like if she got far enough away, the ring would fade from her mind.
Monday morning, the base looked normal.
         That was the first cruel thing about it.
         The sun rose like it always did. Cars lined up at the gate. People jogged in reflective belts like rules could protect them from anything. The school smelled like floor cleaner and cafeteria breakfast and teenage impatience.
         Milly walked down the hallway with her backpack tugging one shoulder, boots heavy on linoleum. She had not slept well. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Donny’s face. Yellow ring. Tears. His body moving like a puppet.
         She told herself she was being dramatic.
         Kids cried. Kids behaved sometimes. Kids fell asleep.
         It was fine.
         Then she heard the whispers.
         “Jr. Burger’s in the hospital.”
         Milly stopped mid-step.
         A group of girls leaned against lockers, phones out, eyes bright with the excited horror of gossip.
         “He won’t wake up,” one said, almost thrilled by it.
         “I heard he was drugged,” another added.
         “No, the tests are clean,” someone corrected. “My mom said the doctors can’t find anything.”
         Milly’s stomach dropped so fast it felt like falling.
         Sleep.
         She had not said until morning.
         She had not said wake up.
         Her fingers went cold.
         In homeroom she sat at her desk and tried to focus on announcements, on the pledge, on anything that was not the hard thump of her heart.
         Then a knock came at the classroom door.
         Mr. Vance opened it. His face changed.
         Two uniformed figures stood in the doorway. One wore MP gear. The other wore a civilian police uniform.
         Mr. Vance glanced back at the class like he wished he could disappear. “Milly,” he said carefully, “can you come with them?”
         Thirty heads turned.
         Milly stood on legs that did not feel like hers.
         The walk out of the classroom felt like walking through water. People whispered. Someone made an “oooh” sound.
         In the hallway, the MP kept his posture controlled and professional. The civilian officer’s eyes were steady and tired, like she had dealt with a hundred versions of this story and none ended clean.
         The civilian officer spoke first, voice low. “Milly. Melisandria, right?”
         Milly nodded.
         “We need to ask you a few questions,” the MP said, calm and firm.
         “About what?” Milly asked anyway, even though she knew.
         “Donald MacDonald,” the civilian officer said. “He’s in the hospital. Unresponsive. You babysat Friday night.”
         Milly’s throat went dry. “I didn’t give him anything.”
         “We’re not saying you did,” the civilian officer said, and it still sounded like an accusation wearing a softer coat. “But we need you to come to the hospital.”
         The MP added, “Your parents have been contacted. They’ll meet us there.”
         My parents.
         The words hit like a drop.
         Milly nodded once, because refusing would make this worse.
         Outside, the winter air slapped her cheeks. In the backseat, she watched her reflection slide across the window as the school disappeared behind them.
         She tried to remember what normal breathing felt like.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and old coffee. Fluorescent lights turned everyone into pale ghosts.
         Milly’s parents were already there. Her mother’s face was tight, eyes red. Her father looked like someone had poured cement into his shoulders.
         “Milly,” her mom breathed, reaching for her hand.
         Milly let herself be pulled close, because she needed something solid.
         A nurse guided them down a hallway to a room near the end. “You can go in,” the nurse said, voice careful.
         The door opened.
         Mrs. MacDonald stood near the bed, jaw tight. Lt Col MacDonald stood beside her, arms crossed, rigid. A doctor held a clipboard. The MP stayed near the doorway, watchful. The civilian officer leaned against the wall, quiet, observing.
         Donny lay in the bed.
         He looked normal.
         Too normal.
         His chest rose and fell. An IV line ran into his arm. The heart monitor beeped steadily, patient and indifferent.
         He looked like he was asleep.
         Except everyone in the room looked like they were waiting for him to die.
         Mrs. MacDonald’s gaze snapped to Milly. The moment their eyes met, the pressure behind Milly’s eyes flared, hot and involuntary.
         There was no yellow ring in Mrs. MacDonald’s eyes.
         Relief flickered through Milly anyway, and she hated herself for it.
         Mrs. MacDonald stepped forward. “You.”
         “Martha,” Lt Col MacDonald warned quietly, but his gaze stayed on Milly.
         Mrs. MacDonald’s voice sharpened. “You were the last person with him.”
         Milly swallowed. “He went to bed,” she said. “He was tired.”
         “Tired?” Mrs. MacDonald’s voice cracked with fury and fear. “Kids don’t just not wake up.”
         The doctor cleared his throat. “Mrs. MacDonald. Mr. MacDonald. We’ve run toxicology. No sedatives. No opioids. No alcohol. No abnormal bloodwork. No trauma. His vitals are stable.”
         “So what is it?” Lt Col MacDonald demanded, anger kept tight behind his teeth.
         The doctor spread his hands. “We call it an unexplained unresponsive state. His brain activity suggests sleep. He won’t respond. We’re monitoring.”
         Mrs. MacDonald turned back to Milly like the doctor had not spoken. “How much did we pay you?”
         Milly’s cheeks burned. “A hundred,” she said, and stopped.
         Lt Col MacDonald’s eyes narrowed. “And.”
         Milly looked away fast.
         “I didn’t give him anything,” Milly said, voice shaking. “I didn’t touch him.”
         “Then explain this,” Mrs. MacDonald said, voice rising. “Explain why my son is lying there like he’s dead!”
         Milly flinched.
         Her mother squeezed her hand hard.
         The MP shifted slightly. The civilian officer’s gaze stayed on Milly’s face.
         Milly’s chest tightened until breathing hurt.
         Everyone was watching her.
         Like she was a match in a room full of gasoline.
         The pressure behind her eyes built. Heat. Tears. Something sharper underneath, like electricity gathering.
         Milly took a step toward the bed without meaning to.
         This is my fault.
         The thought landed heavy and undeniable.
         A sob broke loose. It turned into a yell.
         “Please!” Milly shouted, voice cracking. “Just give me a minute. Alone!”
         Her gaze slammed into Mrs. MacDonald’s.
         The yellow ring ignited around Mrs. MacDonald’s irises, bright and immediate.
         Mrs. MacDonald’s expression blanked for half a second.
         Milly’s eyes jerked to Lt Col MacDonald, desperate and wild.
         Yellow ring. A flicker, then stronger.
         His arms uncrossed like he had forgotten why they were there.
         Milly looked at the doctor.
         Yellow ring, faint but present. The doctor blinked once, confused, then stepped back.
         Milly’s eyes found the MP.
         Yellow ring, thin and quick, like it fought to appear.
         The MP’s posture softened by a fraction.
         Milly glanced toward the civilian officer.
         Yellow ring, dimmer, but there.
         Silence fell.
         Not sparkling silence. The kind of silence that comes right before something you cannot take back.
         Milly stood shaking, tears running, breathing ragged.
         Mrs. MacDonald swallowed. “Yes,” she said softly. “A minute.”
         Lt Col MacDonald nodded once. “One minute.”
         The doctor cleared his throat. “We’ll step out.”
         The MP opened the door.
         The civilian officer went last, eyes on Milly.
         One by one, they left.
         The door clicked shut.
         Milly was alone with the boy she had turned into a rumor.
         The moment the door closed, Milly’s ears rang. Dizziness rolled through her like a wave. She grabbed the bed rail.
         Her head pounded.
         “What did I do,” she whispered.
         Donny did not move.
         The monitor beeped steadily.
         Milly stepped closer. Her hands shook.
         “I didn’t mean it,” she whispered.
         She touched his shoulder lightly. Nothing.
         She swallowed hard.
         Then she lifted his upper eyelid with two fingers.
         His eye rolled slightly under the lid, unfocused.
         Milly leaned in until her face was inches from his. Until there was nothing in her world but that eye.
         “Donny,” she whispered. “Wake up.”
         Nothing.
         Her throat tightened.
         Be careful. Be specific. Words matter.
         She forced herself to slow down. To think.
         Then she spoke, voice low but fierce.
         “Donny,” Milly said, and held his eyelid open, forcing her gaze into his. “Wake up. Right now. Open your eyes. Breathe.”
         The yellow ring ignited around his iris. It was brighter than anything she had seen. It looked like sunlight trapped behind glass.
         Milly’s vision snapped crystal clear. The beeping grew louder. Her heartbeat hammered in her skull.
         Donny’s chest rose, then hitched.
         The monitor sped up.
         His fingers twitched.
         Then his whole body jerked, like a swimmer breaking the surface.
         He gasped.
         His eyes flew open, wide and terrified.
         The yellow ring flared once more, then faded fast.
         Donny blinked hard. He coughed. His gaze darted around, confused and panicked.
         “M… Mom?” he croaked.
         Milly’s hand dropped from his eyelid like it had burned her.
         She staggered back. Her knees felt weak. Her head felt like it might split. She grabbed the rail again.
         The door burst open.
         Mrs. MacDonald surged in first, eyes wide. The doctor followed, then Lt Col MacDonald, then the MP. The civilian officer hovered at the threshold.
         Mrs. MacDonald froze when she saw Donny awake.
         “Oh my God,” she whispered. Her hand flew to her mouth.
         “Donny!” she cried, rushing to him.
         Donny turned his head toward her voice. He was disoriented, but awake.
         The doctor stepped in immediately, checking vitals, shining a light into Donny’s eyes, asking questions in quick clipped medical language.
         Lt Col MacDonald’s gaze snapped to Milly. He looked at her face, tear-streaked and pale. His eyes narrowed as if he was trying to see something beneath her skin.
         Mrs. MacDonald looked up from the bed. Fear, gratitude, and suspicion tangled across her face.
         The MP watched Milly like she was a threat he did not have a manual for.
         The civilian officer said nothing. Her gaze flicked from Milly’s eyes to Donny’s, then back again.
         No one said the words.
         But the silence in the room was different now.
         Milly’s mom pushed into the room, frantic. “Milly.”
         Milly turned toward her and swayed.
         Her mom caught her by the shoulders.
         “I’m okay,” Milly lied.
         The doctor spoke quickly. “He’s responsive. We’ll do a full neuro exam. We’ll monitor.”
         Lt Col MacDonald stepped closer to Milly, lowering his voice. “What did you do.”
         Milly looked at him, then deliberately looked away before she met his eyes fully.
         “I don’t know,” she whispered.
         It was the most honest thing she’d said all day.
         Finally, the civilian officer cleared her throat. “There’s no evidence of drugs,” she said carefully. “The child is awake.”
         She looked at the MP. The MP gave a small professional nod.
         “So we’re done for now,” the civilian officer finished.
         For now.
         Lt Col MacDonald did not like that. His jaw tightened. He did not argue. He just stared at Milly like he was memorizing her.
         Mrs. MacDonald clutched Donny’s arm as if she could keep him awake by force.
         Donny’s gaze drifted toward Milly again.
         He did not call her a witch.
         He just looked.
         And that, somehow, was worse.
By the time Milly got home, it was late afternoon and the sun was already sliding toward evening.
         She went straight to the bathroom without speaking to her parents. She could not handle their eyes right now. Their worry. Their questions.
         She shut the door and leaned against it, breathing hard.
         Her face in the mirror looked wrong.
         Too pale. Eyes too dark. Makeup smudged from tears. The gold chain across her cheek still caught the light. It still looked like armor.
         Her head still throbbed.
         She turned on the faucet, splashed cold water onto her cheeks, and stared at her reflection.
         “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I’m okay.”
         Her reflection did not look convinced.
         Milly leaned closer, studying her eyes. Brown irises. Nothing special. Nothing supernatural.
         She blinked once.
         For half a second, so fast she almost missed it, she saw it.
         A faint yellow ring.
         Not blazing. Not bright. A thin ghostly circle, like sunlight trapped behind glass.
         In her own eyes.
         Milly froze. Her heart lurched.
         Then it was gone.
         She blinked again, hard.
         Nothing.
         She stared until her eyes watered.
         Nothing.
         Her breath came out shaky.
         Afraid.
         Empowered.
         Because if she could see it in herself, then it was not just something she did.
         It was something she was.
         Milly backed away from the mirror, one hand on the sink for balance.
         She had always thought she was good with people.
         Now she was not sure whether they liked her, or whether they obeyed.
         And the worst part was that some quiet part of her could not deny the truth.
         It had felt easy.
         Like opening a door she did not know was there.
         Milly turned off the faucet. The bathroom went still.
         Outside the door, her mother’s voice called softly, “Milly? Honey? Are you okay?”
         Milly swallowed, wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve, and stared at the mirror one last time.
         No yellow.
         Just her.
         “For now,” she whispered.
         Then she opened the door.

Story Two - "Milly and Tuesday"