Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
December arrives with teeth. The cold cuts through the factory walls, burrowing into concrete and steel, making everything it touches brittle. My breath hangs visible in front of me, even during the day, marking time in small clouds of proof that I’m still breathing.
I can’t remember the last time I was warm. By the time the heat inside the school thaws the numbness of my fingers, the end of day has arrived and it’s time to leave. I have a cough, and a constant ache in my chest that doesn’t ease.
I should try to find somewhere warmer, but no one comes here …
well, no one but her, and she won’t take away the few things I have.
So, I stay where I am and wonder every time I close my eyes if I won’t open them the next morning.
The thought reminds me that I need to check what supplies I have left.
The crate I use as a table scrapes against the floor as I drag it aside.
My hands shake as I work the loose floor tile free.
My heart plummets down to my stomach. The space underneath is empty.
Every bit of food I’ve hoarded has gone.
I press my palms against my eyes until spots dance behind the lids.
Think.
It’s Monday today. I had an apple, half a sleeve of crackers and a granola bar.
Rats could have taken it. Or I might have miscounted what I had in the constant state of exhaustion I’m living in.
Maybe I ate the granola bar and don’t remember, my brain too starved to catalog every desperate bite.
It wouldn’t be the first time hunger made me do things I forget about later.
I sit back, staring at the empty hole, and reach for the blanket I found behind the Goodwill store.
It offers very little protection against the cold.
It had been thrown out, too damaged to sell, but it was better than nothing so I took it.
Now I wrap myself in it anyway, pulling it tight around my shoulders, and try to trap what little warmth my body still generates.
I have another one. The one Lily left when I had a fever.
I keep that for night time, when cold seeps through every gap, every broken window, and every crack in the walls.
When I wake, shaking so hard my teeth rattle, I wrap myself in it, my nose buried against the material where the scent of her perfume still lingers.
My classmates are probably at home now. Complaining about homework or arguing with their parents over curfews. Normal lives with normal problems. Tomorrow I’ll have to behave like I’m normal too. The exhaustion of pretending is worse than dealing with the cold and hunger sometimes.
Cupping my hands in front of my face, I blow into them, trying to ease the ache from my fingers.
I need to do my homework before it gets dark.
The history essay on Sherman’s March is due tomorrow, and Edwards will notice if I don’t turn it in.
He always notices when I slip. Last week he asked if everything was all right at home.
I’d lied, and told him my uncle was working overtime, but that I was managing fine.
His eyes suggested he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t push it.
Replacing the tile, I cover it with the crate again, then pull out my notebook and pen from my bag. The essay question stares back at me from the textbook page.
Analyze Sherman’s strategy of total war and its effectiveness in achieving Union objectives.
I know this material, but translating that understanding into words requires steady hands and a brain that works.
My handwriting wobbles across the page, barely legible even to me.
Sherman’s March to the Sea represented a shift in—
The pen slips. I grip it tighter, forcing my fingers to cooperate.
—military strategy, targeting not just armies by the economic and psychological—
My hand cramps. The words merge together. I manage two more sentences before my grip fails. My fingers are too cold. The pen rolls off the crate and disappears into the shadows.
I don’t bother retrieving it. What’s the point?
I can barely hold a thought together, much less string them into something Edwards will accept.
Frustration builds, threatening to choke me.
Writing is one of the few things I’m good at, one of the ways I can prove I’m more than just another problem for this town to ignore.
In essays and analysis, I can show that my mind works.
Without it, I’m nothing more than a ghost haunting these abandoned spaces.
A gust of wind lifts the pages of the textbook, and a sheet of paper slips free. It skitters across the floor. By the time I snatch it up, my fingers are numb again. The date at the top of the sheet catches my eye.
December 12th. I’m eighteen today.
I crumple the paper into a ball, and shove it into my pocket. My age means nothing. The date marks nothing, other than time passing. A meaningless countdown. A day closer to death. Yet I can’t stop memories from forming.
“Happy birthday, baby. Blow out the candles. Make a wish.”
My mom’s voice echoes through my head, bringing with it a brief image of a birthday cake, balloons, and bright smiles.
How old was I? Three? Four?
It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t long after that our lives changed forever.
A noise breaks through my thoughts. Footsteps … echoing from somewhere outside. I freeze, every muscle locking into place. They’re not her footsteps. I’ve learned the pattern of those. This is someone else … more than one person. Male voices drift upward. Two of them, laughing about something.
Shoving to my feet, I creep across to the window and look outside just in time to see a lighter flicker to life near the entrance.
“—told you this place is perfect. Nobody comes here anymore.”
“What about the cops? Don’t they patrol?”
“Nah, they don’t care about an empty building. They’ve got better things to do than chase kids out of the ruins. Come on, pass it here.”
I drop back down into the shadows. My bag sits within reach, packed and ready as always.
The back exit is along the hallway and down a set of stairs.
It’ll take me five seconds to reach it if I move fast, and don’t stumble on the debris that litters the floor.
But movement means noise, and noise means discovery.
The voices continue, talking about a party, a girl, upcoming weekend plans.
My legs cramp from staying crouched in place.
Eventually, the cigarettes get stamped out and the voices fade, footsteps retreating across the old parking lot.
I wait another ten minutes before I allow myself to move, to breathe normally, and unclench muscles that are locked tight with tension.
The adrenaline leaves me shaking. If they’d seen me, would they have told an adult I was here? Would they have called CPS, where they would ask questions I can’t answer?
I’ve just about got my heart under control when noise reaches me again. More footsteps, but these ones I recognize.
Lily.
The first few times she turned up, she stumbled over everything. Now she navigates the debris like she belongs here.
She doesn’t. No one belongs here, but she won’t listen to me when I tell her to leave, and now it’s just easier to let her do what she wants.
She steps into the room, her face covered by a scarf, and her body bundled up in a winter coat and gloves.
“Happy birthday!” Her voice is bright and cheerful.
I stare at her. How does she know that?
“How?” It’s all I can get out before I start coughing again.
She waits, eyes never leaving me until I take a breath.
“The school bulletin board last week. Your name was on the list of students turning eighteen this month.” She rummages in her bag while she talks, pulling out a paper bag. Smiling at me, she opens it and takes out a cupcake.
I frown. She ignores me and goes back to the bag.
A candle appears next, pristine and new, the wick unburnt.
Then a small matchbook. She uses her teeth to pull off her gloves, then pushes the candle into the fondant on top of the cake.
She returns to the bag a third time. When she produces a bottle of bourbon, my eyes widen a little.
“Where did you get that? You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Too late.” She strikes a match, and the candle flares to life between us. The flame reflects in her eyes, turning them gold. “Make a wish.”
“Nothing to wish for.”
“Liar.” She doesn’t push for more, just places the cake down on the crate between us. “We can’t eat it unless you blow out the candle, and the rule is you have to make a wish.”
Our eyes catch and lock. I don’t know how she manages to do it, but I find myself leaning forward, and half-closing my eyes.
A slight breath and the flame goes out. She grins at me, tears the cupcake in half, hands me the bigger slice, and licks the fondant off her fingers.
I try to make it last, but it’s still gone in too few bites.
The sweetness lingers on my tongue, a reminder of things I’ve taught myself not to want.
She twists the cap off the bourbon, and lifts it to her lips to take a swallow.
When she coughs, tears springing to her eyes, I laugh quietly, surprising us both.
Taking it from her, I take a mouthful. It burns going down, but it warms my entire body.
When she takes the bottle back, her fingers brush against mine, adding a new kind of heat.
The factory creaks around us, and through the window I look at the stars. The same stars I used to watch from my bedroom window … back when I had a bedroom, anyway.
We sit together, passing the bottle back and forth without speaking, until the numbness in my fingertips and nose is from the alcohol rather than the cold.
Then she moves, dragging her bag between her legs and pulling it open again.
She hesitates when she pulls out two parcels.
One wrapped in newspaper—the book review section, because of course she’d think of that detail.
“You didn’t need to—”
“I wanted to.” She places it between us. “Just open it. Please?”
The paper comes away easily, revealing a leather-bound notebook.
Real leather. The expensive kind meant to last, with pages that won’t tear or bleed through when you write.
The kind I’ve stood in front of at the bookstore, running my fingers over the covers but never had the money to buy.
It’s nothing like the cheap ones I usually steal from the local general store.
When I flip it open, I discover she’s written inside the cover.
Your words matter.
I swallow hard, my throat closing up. This is more than a gift. It took thought. Planning and money she probably saved from her allowance. It’s proof that someone thought about me. Cared enough to give me something that will last.
“Thank you.”
She doesn’t comment on the thickness in my voice. Instead, she hands me the second parcel. This one is wrapped in a brown paper bag. When I open it, two pairs of thick woolen gloves and a hat fall out.
I reach for the bottle and take a healthy gulp. That way I can blame the bourbon for the wetness in my eyes.
We pass the bottle between us again, each sip taking the edge off the silence. At some point, she ends up sitting closer, her shoulder pressed against mine. The contact should make me want to run, but it feels less threatening than it should, and more comfortable than I want to admit.
“Tell me something real.” Her words have a slight slur to them. “Something about today.”
The bourbon makes the truth easy to share. “Thought I’d be dead by now.”
Her hand finds mine, and the contact makes me snap rigid. The instinct to pull away is immediate, but she doesn’t tighten her grip or try to hold onto me when I tense. Her fingers thread through mine, warm against my cold skin, patient as though she’s waiting for my response.
I breathe through the alarms ringing in my head, and don’t pull away. Her fingers squeeze mine gently.
“I’m glad you made it to eighteen.”
Her thumb traces patterns over my wrist, and the touch sends warmth up my arm.
No one has touched me like this in years.
Every touch I can remember has been clinical at best, violent at worst. But this is different.
This is a choice she’s making, a gift she’s offering without demanding anything in return.
She turns slightly, lifting her head. There’s a question in her eyes, one I’m not sure I’m reading right. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, then she leans toward me, slowly, giving me every opportunity to turn away.
Her lips brush mine, hesitant, unsure how I’ll react. The taste of bourbon lingers on her lips, but it’s the soft press of her mouth that has the harder impact. My pulse pounds in my ears, the press of her lips unraveling something inside me that I didn’t know was wound so tight.
It’s different from what I imagined kissing would be like. It’s not like it is in the movies. There’s nothing smooth or practiced about it. There’s an uncertainty in the way her lips part, and how she waits for me to meet her halfway.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I don’t think she does either. She waits for me to figure it out. When I tilt my head and kiss her back, she sighs against my lips, a small sound that sends heat through my body.
I don’t move to touch her in any other way. We’re connected by our lips only, and her fingers linked with mine. It’s enough. More than enough. More than I ever thought I’d have.
By the time we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the warmth of her breath against my face.
“Happy birthday, Ronan.”