Chapter Twenty-Two
ON THE WAY HOME, MY stomach growls more than once.
Worse than the hunger, though, is the settling stone of disappointment.
If I can’t kill even to feed myself, what hope is there for me?
Would I be able to kill for Grandma, for Bunny?
What if it’s not that I can’t kill, but that I don’t want to? Would I doom us all to starve?
I let my head sag against the headrest and close my eyes. I place my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. My fingertips brush against a plastic bottle.
How could I forget?
I have something to trade. And getting it didn’t require killing.
“DROP ME HERE,” JASPER SAYS.
By now, I know to brace myself for Greeley’s driving, so I dig my fingernails into the seat’s fabric at his words.
For the first time, I don’t slam into her headrest as we come to a screeching halt.
Instead, I’m elated. Victorious. Triumphant.
And then she hits the gas again and veers to the right. Accelerates down a side street.
“Brakes!” Jasper yells.
Greeley sticks her tongue out and blows a raspberry, but she stops the car.
A cardboard sign is staked into the ground with “Robbins Lane” scribbled in faded Sharpie on the surface. At the end of the street is a single house, the years of blight hidden in the dark night. Jasper grabs his backpack and steps out of the Jeep.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
Greeley turns around, one hand on the headset. “You ever seen a Snickers commercial?”
“I’m not sure I want to answer that question.”
“ ‘You’re not you when you’re hungry,’ ” she mimics, jabbing a thumb at Jasper. He glides down the street like a ballerina on speed. “That one turns into a silent diva when he’s hungry.”
“You’re one to talk,” I mutter.
She cocks her head to the side. A slight smile takes shape on her lips. “Come again?”
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, hopping out of the car.
I slam the door behind me and jog to catch up to Jasper, my chest burning with every step.
Nausea rolls through my empty stomach, and I throw my hands on my thighs before I puke.
Only, nothing comes out. I spit out a mucusy wad of saliva and close my eyes.
Breathe. Wait for my heart rate to come back down.
Ahead of me, Jasper says, “You made your choice. I’m not sharing.”
I hock out another spit. “I wasn’t asking.” Hand shaking, I pull the pill bottle out of my pocket and give it a shake.
His eyes widen. “What’s that?”
“Aspirin. Want some?”
Jasper shakes his head and turns around. “You can’t come.” Though he walks toward the house, his pace is much slower than before—and still, he keeps all the weight on the right.
“I know you need it,” I call, giving the bottle another shake. The pills rattle. “Your leg hurts. Doesn’t it? It’s sprained.”
Jasper turns around, takes three steps toward me, and pauses. “What do you want for a pill, Kota? Spit it out.”
I stand and point at the white farmhouse illuminated in the dark. “What’s in that house?”
“A hot meal.”
“That’s what I want.”
“Fine,” Jasper says.
“Fine what?” I ask.
“You’ve got a deal.”
I tuck the pills into my pocket and extend a hand. “Shake on it, I insist.”
As he extends a hand, I spit into mine.
“I’m not doing a spit shake,” Jasper says.
“Blood oath?”
“Just—give me your other hand.”
“No,” I say, wiping my spit-covered hand on my pants. I grab his hand and shake it so hard that my whole body moves, then give him three pills. “Shall we do this thing?”
He sighs and pops the pills into his mouth. “I guess so.”
JASPER KNOCKS ON THE BATTERED door three times.
When no one answers, he sticks an ear to it and turns the knob.
I follow him inside and shut the door, taking in the modest entryway.
It’s dark but warm in here, the light like golden honey.
A single tea candle glows between a photo of a family smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower and a framed ink stamp of an infant’s footprints.
The space opens into a much brighter living room, set alight with candles of every shape and size. The excess sends a wave of shock through me. In Egal, each household is allowed one candle per week. Where have the owners of this home found these candles? Or what have they traded to get them?
On a threadbare teal sofa sit two salt-and-pepper heads: one long and curly, the other short and wiry. They twist around at our entrance, then pop off the sofa like Whac-A-Moles.
“Nobody panic,” Jasper says. “It’s just me.”
“And me,” I whisper to myself.
“And her,” Jasper says louder as the couple bustles over to us.
I lean up toward his face. “You’ve got ears of a bat, you know that?” His mouth ticks up. “What’re you smirking about?”
“My sister used to say the same thing.”
“Your sister.” I nearly forgot Jasper doesn’t exist in a silo.
He’s a real human, with a family and relationships and thoughts and feelings.
He has a history, and it’s brought him here, to this side of the Split, to this home.
For better or worse, my history has brought me here, too. We’re in this together. We all are.
My train of thought comes to a halt when the man and woman squish Jasper in a bear hug.
“Careful, Sling, you’ll scratch Jasper to death with that beard of yours,” the woman says. The man’s beard, black as night, reaches his collarbone and looks to be made of steel wool.
The man—Sling—chuckles deep from his belly and pulls back, keeping his hands wrapped around Jasper’s upper arms. He gives them a squeeze.
“A bit of style adds light to an otherwise bleak world, don’t ya think, son?”
As if reading my mind, Jasper turns toward me and says, “Sling’s not my dad.”
“Ah, but Jas here is part of the Robbins family, no doubt!” Sling looks at me expectantly. I force a pathetic excuse for a laugh out of my mouth. Sling doesn’t catch the facade, though, smiling wide as he gestures us forward. “Into the kitchen, kiddos.”
I follow him to the left into the small L-shaped kitchen.
Open cabinets line the walls, and well-loved pots and pans hang from the ceiling.
My boots leave muddy marks on the tile floor, and a stitch of guilt rolls through my body.
Though chipped, the tiles are bright and clean, and I’m a grimy, uninvited mooch.
But as soon as I see it—the crème de la crème—the uncomfortable feeling washes away. Anticipation kicks in.
They have a gas stove. And a tank of propane.
“Clara!” I jump backward as the woman shouts through the house.
“Oops! Didn’t mean to frighten you, dear.
” She gives my arm a squeeze, which only makes me more skittish.
“Clara! Young lady, get in here. Jasper is here! And he’s brought a guest—a lady guest!
” Deep dimples pucker her cheeks as she smiles, her eyes as frantic as her tapping foot.
Mom always said to watch out for people with blue eyes like hers. “Your name, sweetheart?”
“Kota,” I say, overcome with the desire to dig a hole and hide in it. This woman gives off more energy than the Jocassee hydraulic system.
Jasper clears his throat, and all attention shifts toward him. He plops his backpack down on the counter and pulls out the dead bunny by the ears. It hangs limply in the air like a half-stuffed animal. “We brought dinner.”
The woman tucks a stray gunpowder curl behind her ears. She claps her wrinkled hands together. “Fabulous! Just fabulous! My dear, it’s so wonderful to meet you. Jasper’s never brought home a guest, never mind one so effervescent—you must be quite important to him.” She winks.
My stomach drops. Effervescent? That’s a new one. And untrue. I’m probably the dullest, most drained version of myself I’ve ever been.
She pulls a hand from my side and shakes. Holy shit. If she keeps this up, I’ll lose circulation. “Nice to meet you,” I say, struggling to think about anything other than this woman squeezing my hand like Grandma making lemonade.
“Oh! How rude—I haven’t even introduced myself.” She drops my hand—thank god—and slaps a palm against her forehead. “I’m Bama, like the state. Roll, tide, roll! And this is my husband, Sling.”
Sling smiles widely and waves a butcher knife.
Jasper offers him the bunny, and he cuts off both ears with one fell swoop.
Clonk.
“No meat in those,” he says. “All cartilage. Much too chewy.”
Bama nods. “Save the fur, though, honey. Clara needs mittens for the winter.” She bustles past me and pulls open a stocked pantry. “We’ve got canned carrots and dried mashed potatoes—Hungry Jack. Have you ever had Hungry Jack, dear?”
“No.” Bama’s wide eyes linger on mine like she’s waiting for a better response. Okay, then. “That sounds wonderful, thank you. Your house is beautiful.”
“This mess? You’re too kind, dear, too kind!”
How long has it been since this woman has interacted with strangers? Is she always like this? Her frantic behavior sets me on edge.
As I try to think of what to say to Bama next—how to get her bug eyes off me—a small child, maybe seven years old, emerges from the back door. Bama pivots her attention to her. Saved by the bell. “Clara, my sweet child, meet our guest. She’s brought a rabbit!”
A jagged scar runs down the left side of her face, from her cheek to her chin, but it only makes her cuter. I briefly wonder where she got it, but push the thought aside. We all have scars.
She extends a tiny palm up to me, hands covered in charcoal, and says, “Hi, I’m Clara.”
“Hi, Clara, I’m Kota. I like your pigtails,” I tell her, and I do. They’re lopsided and slapdash, pieces of black hair strewn in every which way.
“Thanks. Can you help me up?” she asks bluntly.