I can pet her, and as I do, I can feel her ribs. She’s way too skinny. I feel a fresh pang of guilt. Then again, Bree and I are, too. We always share with her whatever we forage, so the three of us are a team of equals. Still, I wish I could give her more.
She pokes her nose at the fish, and as she does, it flies out of my hand and onto the floor. Sasha immediately pounces on it, her claws sending it sliding across the floor. She jumps on it again, this time biting it. But she must not like the taste of raw fish, so she lets it go. Instead, she plays with it, pouncing on it again and again as it slides across the floor.
“Sasha, stop!” I say quietly, not wanting to wake Bree. I also fear that if she plays with it too much, she might tear it open and waste some of the valuable meat. Obediently, Sasha stops. I can see how excited she is, though, and I want to give her something. I reach into my pocket, twist open the tin lid to the mason jar, scoop out some of the raspberry jam with my finger, and hold it out to her.
Without missing a beat she licks my finger, and in three big licks, she has eaten the whole scoop. She licks her lips and stares back at me wide-eyed, already wanting more.
I stroke her head, give her a kiss, then rise back to my feet. Now I wonder whether it was kind to give her some, or just cruel to give her so little.
The house is dark as I stumble through, as it always is at night. Rarely will I set a fire. As much as we need the heat, I don’t want to risk attracting the attention. But tonight is different: Bree has to get well, both physically and emotionally, and I know a fire will do the trick. I also feel more open to throwing caution to the wind, given that we will move out of here tomorrow.
I cross the room to the cupboard and remove a lighter and candle. One of the best things about this place was its huge stash of candles, one of the very few good byproducts of my Dad’s being a Marine, of his being such a survival nut. When we’d visit as kids, the electricity would go out during every storm, and so he’d stockpile candles, determined to beat the elements. I remember I used to make fun of him for it, call him a hoarder when I discovered his entire closet full of candles. Now that I’m down to the last few candles, I wish he’d hoarded more.
I’ve been keeping our only lighter alive by using it sparingly, and by siphoning off a tiny bit of gas from the motorcycle once every few weeks. I thank God every day for Dad’s bike, and I am also grateful that he fueled it up one last time: it is the one thing we have that makes me think we still have an advantage, that we have something really valuable, some way of surviving if things go to hell. Dad always kept the bike in the small garage attached to the house, but when we first arrived, after the war, the first thing I did was remove it and roll it up the hill, into the woods, hiding it beneath bushes and branches and thorns so thick that no one could ever possibly find it. I figured, if our house is ever discovered, the first thing they’d do is check the garage.
I’m also grateful that Dad taught me how to drive it when I was young, despite Mom’s protests. He told me it was harder to learn than most bikes, because of the attached sidecar. I remember back when I was twelve, terrified, learning to ride the bike while Dad sat in the sidecar, barking orders at me every time I stalled. I learned on these steep, unforgiving mountain roads, and I remember feeling like we were going to die. I remember looking out over the edge, seeing the drop, and crying, insisting that he drive. But he refused. He sat there stubbornly for over an hour, until I finally stopped crying and tried again. And somehow, I learned to drive it. That was my upbringing in a nutshell.
I haven’t touched the bike since the day I hid it, and I don’t even risk going up to look at it except when I need to siphon off the gas-and even that I will only do at night. I imagine that if ever one day we’re in trouble and need to get out of here fast, I’ll put Bree and Sasha in the sidecar and drive us all off to wherever we need to go. But in reality, I have no idea where else we’d possibly go. From everything I’ve seen and heard, the rest of the world is a wasteland, filled with violent criminals, gangs, and few survivors. The violent few who’ve managed to survive have congregated in the cities, kidnapping and enslaving whoever they can find, either for their own ends, or to service the death matches in the arenas. I am guessing that Bree and I are among very few survivors who still live freely, on our own, outside the cities. And among the very few who haven’t yet starved to death.
I light the candle, and Sasha follows as I walk slowly through the darkened house. I assume Bree is asleep, and this worries me: she normally doesn’t sleep this much. I stop before her door, debating whether to wake her. As I stand there, I look up and am startled by my own reflection in the small mirror. I look much older, as I do every time I see myself. My face, thin and angular, is flush from the cold, my light brown hair falls down, framing my face, to my shoulders, and my steel-grey eyes stare back at me as if they belong to someone I don’t recognize. They are hard, intense eyes. Dad always said they were the eyes of a wolf. Mom always said they were beautiful. I wasn’t sure who to believe.
I quickly look away, not wanting to see myself. I reach out and turn the mirror backwards, so that it won’t happen again.
I slowly open Bree’s door. The second I do, Sasha charges in and rushes to Bree’s side, lying down and resting her chin on Bree’s chest as she licks her face. It never ceases to amaze me how close those two are- sometimes I feel like they are even closer than we are.
Bree slowly opens her eyes, and squints into the darkness.
“Brooke?” she asks.
“It’s me,” I say, softly. “I’m home.”
She sits up and smiles as her eyes light up with recognition. She lies on a cheap mattress on the floor, and throws off her thin blanket and begins to get out of bed, still in her pajamas. She is moving more slowly than usually, and it is obvious she is still sick.
I lean down and give her a hug.
“I have a surprise for you,” I say, barely able to contain my excitement.
She looks up wide-eyed, then closes her eyes and opens her hands, waiting. She is so believing, so trusting, it amazes me. I debate what to give her first, then settle on the chocolate. I reach into my pocket and pull out the bar, and place it slowly in her palm. She opens her eyes and looks down at her hand, squinting in the light, unsure. I hold the candle up to it.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Chocolate,” I answer.
She looks up as if I’m playing a trick on her.
“Really,” I say.
“But where did you get it?” she asks, uncomprehending. She looks down as if an asteroid has just landed in her hand. I don’t blame her: there are no stores anymore, no people around, and no place within a hundred miles of here that I could conceivably find such a thing.
I smile down at her. “Santa gave it to me, for you. It’s an early Christmas present.”
She wrinkles her brows. “No,
I take a deep breath, realizing it’s time to tell her about our new home, about leaving here tomorrow. I try to figure the best way to phrase it. I hope she will be as excited as I am-but with kids, you never know. A part of me worries she might be attached to this place, and not want to leave.
“Bree, I have some big news,” I say, as I lean down and hold her shoulders. “I discovered the most amazing place today, high up. It’s a small, stone cottage, and it’s perfect for us. It’s cozy, and warm, and safe, and it has the most beautiful fireplace, which we can light every night. And best of all, it has all kinds of food right there. Like this chocolate.”
Bree looks back down at the chocolate, studying it, and her eyes open twice as wide as she realizes it’s real. She gently pulls back the wrapper, and smells it. She closes her eyes and smiles, then leans in to take a bite-but suddenly stops herself. She looks up at me in concern.
“What about you?” she asks. “Is there only one bar?”
That’s Bree, always so considerate, even if she’s starving. “You go first,” I say. “It’s okay.”
She pulls the wrapper back, and takes a big bite. Her face, hollowed-out from hunger, crumbles in ecstasy.
“Chew slowly,” I warn. “You don’t want to get a stomach ache.”
She slows down, savoring each bite. She breaks off a big piece and puts it in my palm. “Your turn,” she says.
I slowly put it into my mouth, taking a small bite, letting it sit on the tip of my tongue. I suck on it, then chew it slowly, savoring every moment. The taste and smell of chocolate fills my senses. It is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever had.
