Sophie Littlefield - Survivors

“Nana,” Hastings snapped. “Unless you can get that kid to tell you more.”

“You should bring him in, too, you know,” Francie reminded her. “I’ve seen twelve cases of ringworm in the last week. I wouldn’t be surprised. And I should look at his teeth, all of that.”

“You sound like you plan on us keepin’ him,” Hastings said.

“He’s not a pet.”

Hastings shrugged.

“I’ll bring him tomorrow,” Cass promised. “Once Smoke and I get him fed and calmed down a little. Is that okay?”

Francie peered at her over her glasses, eyebrows raised, lips pursed, looking for a moment like a stern librarian, albeit one who was liberally inked with Aftertime tattoos, names of her lost twisted in a fanciful script along with trailing stems and leaves and the occasional rosebud up and down her arms and shoulders and across her collarbones. She reached a long, carefully manicured finger to the old woman’s forehead and tapped gently. The woman didn’t respond. Her head lolled on her neck as though no muscles at all surrounded it, and her face was as the boy had described: lax and drooping on one side. Cass closed one eye, trying to block off the frozen half of the old woman’s face, searching for clues in the other half as to what the woman once looked like, imagining a trip to the hairdresser for a wash and set, a lacy cardigan. Pink lipstick and a purse with a tortoiseshell handle. But even in the good half of the woman’s face, she could not make out who she used to be.

“If Beatriz makes it that long, you can try,” Hastings muttered as he gently untied the faded cotton gown so he could continue his exam.

“Beatriz?”

“ Her idea,” Hastings said gruffly, jabbing a finger in Francie’s direction.

Francie shrugged, unperturbed. “Only until we find out her real one.”

Back in the tent, Smoke and Feo had returned. The boy sat gingerly on the edge of their bed, very straight, as if holding his breath. His long hair had been washed and hung in a dripping, glossy sheet, but he didn’t bother to wipe away the beads of water that trailed down his face, some settling in his long dark eyelashes before rolling down over his brown cheeks and solemn mouth to fall in his lap. He was dressed in what looked like a woman’s sweat suit and Cass made a mental note to tell the guys to find him something else-something a boy would like. At least the clothes were clean.

Smoke was turned away, lining up the things on their shelf. In the plastic box Cass saw that there was an extra toothbrush, a child’s stubby purple one. She and Smoke and nearly everyone else in the Box had switched to the ones cut from woody kaysev stems; people said they did a better job even than real toothbrushes.

The toothbrush was a special gift, something to remind the boy of Before, which had presumably been a better time for him. So, too, was the privacy Smoke gave him, pretending indifference as he tended to his housekeeping. Feo’s hungry eyes roved over the homey inside of the tent with its treasure trove of books and pictures cut from magazines and Ruthie’s toys, the silver candlesticks and the pretty rug and the stained-glass panels, the home they had made together. The family they had made together, a mother and daughter and the man who found them after they thought every good thing was gone.

Cass averted her own eyes, turned away and adjusted Ruthie’s covers. She recognized the longing in the boy’s eyes and, like Smoke, she turned away, to give him privacy to enjoy a tiny sliver of something nice.

A thick layer of quilts for padding and a blue comforter borrowed from Coral Anne, a pillow with a flannel case decorated with pine trees and bears. The boy slept on the rug and seemed happy to do so. He said nothing when Cass and Smoke bid him good-night, curled into a ball whose shape, underneath the covers, seemed impossibly small. Cass watched him for a moment before blowing out the candle, Smoke’s breathing already deep and even against her back, where he lay with his arms around her, holding her to his chest.

They lay like that still, in the first light of morning, when Cass woke momentarily to see that the boy had edged closer to their bed. He had the comforter twisted around himself, and one hand rested outflung where it could touch the edge of the quilt that hung down from their bed. It was an awkward position, but as Cass watched him, he slept on without moving, without a twitch or a sigh.

“Where is she?” was the first thing the boy asked, sitting up with the twisted covers at his waist. His hair had dried in shiny waves and Cass had to suppress a smile to think how women used to struggle so mightily to get theirs to look like that. Ruthie stirred at the sound of his voice, but didn’t wake. It was still early, maybe six or six-thirty; Smoke had brought her a cup of coffee before leaving for the alley outside the west end, where he and some of the other guards practiced a brutal training regimen.

Cass set aside the paperback she had been reading, marking her place with a postcard that had fallen out of an old issue of InStyle . Two Years for the Price of One, it read in bold, presumptive letters.

“Good morning,” she said softly. “You want to know where your grandmother is?”

“Yeah.” He was working at the clump of covers, trying to get his legs untangled. He looked like he was ready to bolt, and Cass knelt down on the floor next to him and placed her hand gently on the covers.

“Let me help?” She made it a question, and for a moment the boy froze, staring at her hand on the blue fabric, where she had taken care not to touch him, even through the comforter. After a moment he relaxed a little and Cass tugged and pulled and the comforter came free.

“You’ll be cold,” Cass said, and got a fleece-lined flannel shirt of Smoke’s from the bar hung from the roof support that served as a closet. They had nice hangers, sturdy wooden ones with gold-tone hooks that had come home from a raid, a present for Cass, a little joke between them-Smoke brought her silly luxuries, things it would have never occurred to her to buy for herself Before, even if she could have afforded them. “This will be much too large,” she added, holding it out for the boy to put his arms into the sleeves, “but I think we can make it work for now, and I know that Smoke won’t mind a bit.”

The boy looked dubious but he was already shivering in the morning chill so he allowed Cass to guide the shirt onto his thin body, buttoning the front and rolling up the sleeves. If Feo was sent away today, at least he would have this in addition to the sweater, a gift from someone who wished she could have done more.

“Now, as for your grandmother, they’re taking good care of her. We have a couple good doctors here-” only a little lie “-and medicine.” That was a worse lie, because Cass was pretty sure that none of the things they had in their stores could help what was wrong with the old woman. “But she needs to rest. A little later, I’ll go over there and find out when the doctors say we can visit.”

The boy considered this, his brow knitting and his deep brown eyes darkening further. He rocked forward, his elbows on his knees, and after a moment he sighed and looked Cass in the eye. “Okay. Can we eat now?”

Cass had watched with silent amusement as Feo worked his way through two bowls of what had become the Box’s standard breakfast fare, for those who could afford it-a rough cereal of dried kaysev beans, mixed with shredded wheat to extend it. One of the cooks had spooned some honey on top, winking at Cass.

They sat at the far end of one of the tables in the dining area, the buzz of the merchants and customers just getting started at this time of day. The others gave them their space, nodding or waving, but staying well away. By now everyone would know all there was to know about the boy, but they seemed to sense that he was skittish and shy. And there were those who preferred to be left alone with their hangovers, those who had lost their taste for hope.