by Amy Tintera
I didn’t answer, but he didn’t need me to. He knew what happened. We sat there in silence for long seconds before it occurred to me that maybe this was a moment when I should say something comforting.
“Maybe it will wear off,” I said. “Or we can ask for help when we get to the reservation. They must have seen this before.”
He nodded. “That’s true.”
I hopped to my feet, holding out my hand to him. The sun was rising higher in the sky, and we didn’t have time to waste. There was a chance the couple would change their minds. “Until then, we’ll just keep you well fed. I’m sure it will be fine.”
He took my hand as he stood up, a hint of relief on his face. He believed me.
I tried to smile like I believed it, too.
TWENTY-FIVE
WE HEADED DOWN THE PAVED ROAD AND TURNED ONTO A narrower street. The houses were smaller than I would have thought, but clean and well kept, without any of the trash that littered the lawns in Rosa’s slums.
“Are we close?” I asked. I pointed to the thick trees near the edge of the city line. “I could go wait there. Maybe I’ll go check the security around the slum wall.”
“No, you have to come with me,” Callum said, looking at me in surprise.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said. “But I’ll stay close by.”
“No, you have to come. They’ll want to meet you.”
“They will absolutely not want to meet me.”
“Yes, they will. You saved me.”
I sighed. “I’ll go but I’ll stay back. I’ll terrify them.”
“You will not. You’re not scary until you start attacking people.”
“I will. And so will you.”
“I am certainly not terrifying. I’m not even close.”
I let out a sigh of defeat and he smiled.
I really hoped he was right.
I glanced behind us, where I could see the tops of bigger houses peeking out from the trees. I couldn’t see much beyond the roofs, but the size alone suggested wealth.
“What’s over there?” I asked.
“The rich people,” he said.
“I thought you were all rich people here.”
He gave me an amused look. His color had returned after eating the meat and he almost looked like his old self again. “Mostly we’re just here because property is passed down through families. My parents never had any money. Neither did my grandparents.”
“What do they do?” I asked. I hadn’t thought rich people did anything, but if Callum worked the fields, his parents must have had jobs.
“My mom’s a teacher and my dad works in the food-processing plant. But they fired my mom when I got sick, so I don’t know if she still teaches.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Risk of infection,” Callum said. “She got one of the lighter strains of KDH when I got sick. They don’t risk infecting children with anything here.”
“Maybe they gave her the job back after she got well.” The little homes had backyards with wooden fences, and I caught glimpses of gardens and flowers. Everything seemed cheerier here.
We rounded the corner and Callum came to a sudden stop, his face scrunching up with unhappiness.
I followed his gaze to a small white house with blue shutters. A stone path led up to the front door and the little windows facing the street gave it a cute, quaint look.
But in front, on a wooden sign in big, black letters, were the words: Quarantined until November 24. Auction on December 1.
I looked at him quickly. “Auction? Does that mean . . .”
“They lost it,” he said, his voice catching.
“Lost it? How?”
“They had a lot of debts. They spent everything they had trying to save me and they must . . .” He swallowed and I took his hand.
“Did they have friends?”
“Yes, but no one would have room. And they wouldn’t be willing to take on three extra mouths when everyone is already in bad shape.”
“So where would they go?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Over there, I guess.” His gaze went east, to the slums. “HARC shuttles the homeless over there. They don’t want that sort of thing here.”
A man a few doors down wandered out of his house, banging the screen door behind him as he headed for his flowers.
“We shouldn’t stay in the open like this,” I said. Callum still stared in the direction of the slums, and panic rose up in my chest at the prospect of going there now. I thought I had more time.
“Let’s go in,” I said, tugging on his hand. “At least until the sun sets. No one’s going to set foot in a quarantined house.”
“We could just go to the slums now.”
“It’ll be safer at night.” I tugged on his hand again, and he finally looked down at me. His expression softened. Perhaps the panic I felt was splashed across my face.
“Yeah, okay.”
We walked up the stone steps to the little white front door. It was locked, but a hard kick from Callum knocked it open.
At first glance, the house looked bigger than it was. The rooms were sparsely furnished and open, the floors a shiny wood I had never seen before. There was no table in the kitchen, nothing but a dingy couch and a television in the living room. It was as if the place had been cleared out by thieves.
Sunlight poured in from a side window, bouncing off the floor and dancing across the bare cream walls. Whatever had been there before was gone, the small nail holes all that remained.
“I guess they let them take the pictures,” Callum said, walking toward the back hallway.
“And some of the furniture?”
“No, this is all we had.”
I dropped my eyes from his, embarrassed, even though his parents had far more than mine ever did.
“Come on,” he said.
I followed him down the dim hallway, the gray carpeting plushy under my feet. He took a quick glance into the first door on our left, which was a small room, empty except for a few posters of comic-book characters on the wall. He walked through the second door on the left.
It was his room. It looked like it hadn’t been touched since the day he died: the bed unmade, papers and books scattered across his desk, pictures and electronic equipment I couldn’t identify littering his bookshelf.
The wooden furniture was old and chipped but the room was fairly neat. Cozy, even. The thick blue comforter at the end of the bed looked nicer than the thin blanket I’d had at HARC, and the sun streaming in through the sheer white curtains made the room warm and open.
“They should have sold this or given it to David,” he said, running his fingers over what I thought was his school reader. We often used old paper books at the slum school, but I’d seen a few readers.
“They couldn’t. When you die and Reboot all your previous possessions become property of HARC.” The cost of safety, they said.
“Oh.”
He sat down on his bed, flipping on the radio on his nightstand. The sounds of a fiddle and a man’s voice filled the room.
“I miss music,” he said, his eyes on his lap.
“I did, too, at first.”
“I shouldn’t have let them pay for treatments,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face. “I knew the survival rate. I knew deep down it was pointless. I was just so scared I would Reboot. I was so terrified I made myself sick at the holding facility.” He looked up and smiled at me. “Until I saw you. I remember lying on the ground staring up at you thinking, If girls that cute are here, it can’t be all bad.”
I turned away, trying to hide my smile as heat spread across my face. The bed creaked as he rose and planted a light kiss on top of my head.
“I’m going to check and see if the water still works. Maybe we can shower.” He turned to grin at me as he left the room. “Separately, of course.”
My full-body blush hadn’t faded in the least by the time he returned. He went to his closet and pulled down
a towel, black cotton pants, and a green T-shirt.
“It works,” he said, holding the clothes out to me. “These are going to be way too big, but I figure you’ll want to change.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s the next door over.”
The white-tiled bathroom was clean and private. I’d forgotten what a private bathroom felt like. I stripped off my clothes and carefully stepped underneath the stream of water. The shower was warm and glorious, the water red as it circled the drain. I was covered in blood, evidence of the numerous gunshot wounds I had suffered.
I emerged from the shower clean and smooth, my mangled chest the only blemish on my skin. I pulled on Callum’s clothes and eased a comb through my hair. I gathered up my own clothes in my arms and dropped them in the corner of Callum’s room.
He was putting new sheets on the bed, gray and so soft looking that I immediately wanted to crawl in.
“I thought you might want to sleep,” he said, putting on the last pillowcase. “Feel free to get in; I’m going to take a shower.”
I nodded, but I sat down at his desk as he left the room. I reached for a photo screen, pressing the button on the edge to bring up the first image.
It was Callum.
Sort of.
Human Callum had shaggy hair and light brown eyes, an easy smile on his face. His arm was around another human boy, but I could only look at him. At his imperfect skin, at the goofy grin on his face, at the innocence that radiated from him.
His skin had been darker as a human. Reboots were paler, evidence that death had touched them, but I rarely noticed anymore. Humans had a brightness to them, a glow that only death extinguished.
I pushed the button and flipped through dozens of photos of Callum with his friends. I barely recognized him.
I raised my head as Callum came up behind me and was almost relieved to see he was how I remembered. His face was hard and strong, nothing like the boy’s in the picture. His dark eyes circled the room in a way that was probably instinctual now—he was looking for threats. He gazed over my shoulder at the picture, reaching down to take it out of my hands. A frown crossed his face.
“I don’t look like this anymore,” he said.
“No.”
“I didn’t think I had changed. It’s only been a few weeks.”
“You have,” I said, touching his fingers. “I like you better this way.”
He raised his eyes from the picture to me, then to the wall just behind me. I turned to see what he was looking at and saw our reflections in a mirror.
“I don’t look human anymore,” he said.
“No. You’re not.”
He looked down at the picture sadly. “When I woke up, after I died, I thought I looked mostly the same.”
“Well, you do, in a way,” I admitted, nodding at the picture in his hand. “Your human memories start to get blurry right away. Especially the things you don’t want to remember.”
He lifted an eyebrow at me. “You know a little bit about that.”
I shrugged and he put the photo screen on the desk, taking my hand and tugging me out of the chair.
“Want to dance?” He scooped me into his arms before I could reply. “We have music this time. And I don’t have to punch you when we finish.”
“You don’t have to. But if I step on your feet too many times you can feel free.”
“I will pass on that offer, but thank you.”
He twirled me once, twice, three times, until I collapsed against his chest in laughter. I rose up on my toes for a kiss and he grabbed me under the arms and lifted me up in the air until I wrapped my legs around his waist.
“That’s better,” he said, brushing his lips against mine.
I closed my eyes and let myself fade away inside the kiss. I liked that I didn’t have to worry about sneak attacks or humans walking past. I liked yielding completely to the kiss, to his arms and the warmth of his body.
“There’s no dancing going on here,” I finally said with a smile.
“Sure there is,” he said, moving in a slow circle. “And this is my favorite dance, by the way.”
“Mine, too.” I leaned my forehead against his, letting the tickling happiness creep up my body.
When the song ended he sat down on the bed with me in his lap, running his hands into my damp hair and kissing from my jawline to my neck.
I wanted to reach under his shirt and touch the warm skin of his back with my fingertips, but I hesitated, my mind immediately trying to sort out how many people or cameras might be watching us.
But there was no one. It was just us.
So I trailed my fingers down his back and closed my eyes and focused on only him.
His breath against my mouth.
His arms as they circled tightly around my waist.
My lips against his cheek.
My eyes finding his, my smile at the desire in his gaze.
His fingers against my back, the cool air tickling my skin as he pushed my shirt up just slightly.
I stiffened, jumping away from him so quickly I almost fell off the bed. I missed the warmth of him immediately, but my stomach had twisted into nervous knots and I couldn’t bring myself to even look at him.
When I suggested we stay in his house I hadn’t considered there would be a bed. I hadn’t considered that we’d be alone.
I hadn’t considered what those two things might mean.
“I’m sorry,” Callum said. His voice was soft, slightly confused. “Not okay?”
“Um.” It was the only word I could come up with.
Was it okay? I’d never considered whether I wanted to have sex, with anyone.
I’d certainly never considered that someone would want to have sex with me.
“I’ve, um, never . . .” I finally looked up at him to see genuine surprise flash across his features.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “You were there five years and you never did it with anyone?”
“Of course not. No one wanted to touch me. You were the first person to even kiss me.”
He cocked his head to the side, studying me curiously. “That’s ridiculous, Wren.”
“It’s the truth.”
He scooted closer until his leg brushed against mine. “No one touched you because you didn’t want them to.”
Maybe he was right about that. I pressed my palms against my thighs but my hands were shaking, so I quickly clasped them together.
“I never did, either,” he said.
Unexpected relief flooded my chest. “Really? Sex is usually the first thing newbies do.”
“I think people immediately assumed I was yours so they stayed far away.” He met my eyes and smiled. “I was. I am.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips to mine. “Yours.”
I swallowed, a strange weight dropping in my stomach. I felt funny, hot, and nervous, and I wanted to pull him to me and never let go. I laced my fingers through his. I was the shaky one this time. He was steady.
“We—we can,” I stuttered. “But we have to leave my shirt on.”
His eyes dropped to my shirt briefly. “Why?”
“It’s gross. It’s better to leave it on.”
“Gross?” he repeated in confusion.
I said nothing and understanding crossed his face. “Oh. Is that where you were shot?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t care if you have a scar, Wren.”
“It’s ugly. And it’s more than one.”
“Someone shot you more than once?”
“Yes. Three times.”
“Who would do that to a twelve-year-old?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice strained and quiet. “I don’t really remember.”
“Any of it?”
The screaming—my screaming—echoed in my brain, making me a liar if I answered that question with a no.
“I remember some of it,” I admitted. “It was a man, I think. We were living in an apartment and he came in yelling
at my parents. I don’t remember what about, but it was probably drugs. They were both really high, like always.” I frowned as the images flashed through my brain. “My mom took me back to the bedroom and I think we were trying to climb out the window. I remember looking down at the grass thinking it was really far down. I heard gunshots and I screamed and my mom put my hand over my mouth and—”
“Are you trying to kill us?”
I swallowed at the sound of my mom’s voice in my ear. “That’s really all I remember.”
Callum took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m sorry.” The horror was spread across his every feature.
“Sorry you asked?” I said with a little laugh.
“Of course not.”
“So we can do it if you want, but this should stay on,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.
He laughed. He saw my confusion and tried to stop, but another one escaped and he shook his head.
“No,” he said, tucking my hair behind my ear and softly kissing my cheek. “I think I will wait for you to have a bit more enthusiasm than ‘we can do it if you want.’” He chuckled again.
My cheeks flushed as I focused on the floor. “Oh. I didn’t, that wasn’t—”
“It’s fine.” He pressed his lips to my forehead and slid off the bed. “I wasn’t expecting that, for the record.”
I wanted to melt into the floor. To become a big pile of bright red, mushy Reboot.
“I can go sleep in my parents’ room,” he said.
I quickly grabbed his hand. “No, will you stay?” I still wanted him close, even if I didn’t want him that close.
“Of course.” He was pleased I’d asked; I could see it in his eyes as he crawled into bed.
I slid in next to him and scooted closer until he wrapped his arms around me. I pressed my face into his chest and he leaned in until his lips brushed my ear.
“When we do have sex, there will be none of this keeping-your-shirt-on nonsense.”
“But—”
“Nope, sorry. I don’t care about the scars and neither should you. All or nothing.”
“Then you may get nothing.”
“Please. You’re not going to be able to resist me for much longer.”