Cured (14 page)

“You're right, it's not that bad, but the collar of your vest is rubbing it. I'm afraid it will get caught in the scab, and I can tell you from personal experience, removing it isn't fun.” He puts a hand on my arm and turns my back to him once again. “At least let me put some of this on it.” He gets the antiseptic and carefully slathers it over the back of my neck. Leaning even closer, he blows on my skin, drying the antiseptic. With feather-gentle fingers, he puts some butterfly bandages over the cut. “There. That should help.” His fingers go back to my arm, and he lifts the sleeve of my T-shirt up a couple of inches. “So, what's this scar from? I could feel it through your shirt.”

I look at the fresh scar. “I got shot by a raider two months ago. They were trying to catch Fo.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Not at first. They shot me and I didn't even realize it. Getting it stitched shut hurt.”

He sets the things back into the first-aid kit and closes it. His face is still pale and his left arm is swollen and bulging around the stitches. “Would you mind helping me clean up a little? I
can't lift my arm right now, or I'd do it myself.” There is dried blood on his ribs where his arm has rubbed against them. I take his wet shirt out of the sink, carefully lift his injured arm, and start wiping. As his skin comes clean, my hand pauses. There are two puckered, round scars on his right ribs. I touch them with my fingertips, and Kevin shudders.

“Are these bullet scars?” I ask.

“Yeah. I was shot by raiders about a year and a half ago.”

“What were you doing when they shot you?”

“Running from them.”

I keep washing the dried blood from his skin. He's got a nice chest, and nice, tight abs. I clench my jaw and wonder what in the world is wrong with me. This is really not a good time to be noticing stupid things like that. I shouldn't notice them at all.

“There's a bathroom through that door.” I jump at his voice, like I've been caught ogling him. With his good arm he points to the opposite end of the kitchen, to a small accordion-looking folding door. “There's a shower, but the water is really cold, and you have to pump it the whole time. But help yourself. The door locks. I'll be in the other room, trying to get some sleep before I go find your friends.” He takes the dirty shirt from me and puts it back in the sink, then picks up one of the lamps and leaves the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. Taking the other lamp, I go into the bathroom and lock the accordion door.

The bathroom is tiny, with a metal toilet, a narrow shower stall, and a metal sink. A toothbrush and small cup sit on the rim of the sink. Above the sink is a medicine cabinet with a mirror. I peer into the mirror. Black bags sag beneath my eyes, making
them look more gray than blue, and a layer of dirt clings to my dark hairline. A smattering of freckles stands out on my nose, and my thin face has a healthy suntan. I look so
boy
that there is nothing pretty about me—a fact that should make me glad. Instead, I want to cry.

I step away from the mirror and press my ear to the accordion door. Convinced that Kevin is not in the kitchen, I take off my clothes. There's no soap in the shower. I open the medicine cabinet and blink. A box of tampons? Seriously? And they're open. There are other things—Tylenol, shaving cream, razors, powdered shampoo, cakes of soap wrapped in cellophane, several toothbrushes still in their packages, and toothpaste. I take out some shampoo and soap and get wonderfully, blessedly clean in the frigid water.

When I am done and shivering, I go into the main room. Kevin is lying on a cot that just happens to have been moved to block the door leading out of his home. His quiet, rhythmic breathing is accompanied by the nearly inaudible whisper of moving air. I look up at the ceiling and see a small vent. I hold my fingers up to it and cool air flows around them.

A pillow and sleeping bag have been laid out on the sofa. I pop a few calorie tablets before setting the kerosene lamp on the coffee table and then crawl into the sleeping bag.

I lie on my side and stare at Kevin, wondering if he can be trusted, wondering if I dare fall asleep with him in the same room. His face is a perfect blend of rugged and pretty, with slightly full lips, arched eyebrows, and a square jaw. I wonder how old he is, and if he has a girlfriend. Or a wife. Inside the wall, girls
and boys marry as young as fifteen in an effort to rebuild the population.

My eyes move down his face, over his neck, and stop on his chest. The blanket has slipped down around his waist and he's not wearing a shirt. I notice things I didn't notice about him when I was washing the blood from his skin, like how wide his chest is and how his chest and shoulders are several shades whiter than his arms and neck and—he clears his throat and I look back at his face, meeting his intense eyes. For once, he's not smiling.

Fire fills my body, burning my face and making it hard to breathe. “G'night,” I grunt, rolling onto my other side so my back is to him. I sound just like my brothers. Kevin douses the kerosene lamp and the room goes black.

“Good night …
Jack
,” he says. Something in his voice makes me feel even hotter, and for a brief moment I worry he might know that I'm a girl. But there's no way. I look like a boy. I sound like a boy. I move like a boy. I pull the sleeping bag up until it's covering my entire head.

The real me exists only in dreams now. The other me? The one that exists in the real world? That's the fake me.

Golden waffles drenched in maple syrup fill my dreams. They're on a plate, being held out to me by someone. I tuck my long, thick hair behind my ears and look up into Kevin's smiling face. He has nice teeth. Really nice, like he still flosses even though the world's gone all wrong. My dad would like his teeth. I lean toward him, but there's something in his eyes that sets off alarm bells. It is the way he watches me, like a boy watching a girl. He reaches out and twines his fingers through my hair. And then it hits me. My hair is too long. I have forgotten to be a boy. And now he knows.

I gasp and sit up, struggling to pull the sleeping bag from my face.

“You all right?” a deep voice asks.

I get the sleeping bag down and am face-to-face with Kevin. He's sitting on the coffee table beside a burning kerosene lamp and leaning toward me. I run my fingers over my buzzed hair and sag with relief. My hair isn't long and beautiful. It's short and ugly. I smooth my hair down at the crown—the spot that always stands up when I sleep—and Kevin smiles, flashing his pearly teeth. I can't help but look at them to see if they really are as nice as in my dream.

They are.

“I didn't mean to startle you awake. I said your name a few times before I shook your shoulder.” He runs his tongue over his teeth. “And just for the record, I do floss.”

My mouth falls open but no words come out.

He puts his callused finger beneath my chin and chuckles when my teeth snap shut. “You talk in your sleep, featherweight. There's floss in the cabinet above the bathroom sink—behind the spare toothbrushes—if you want some. You can use whatever you need while you're here. I get a few hours of accumulated solar power every day, so the stove and microwave will work for a hot meal or two.”

He stands up and my eyes move over his hiking boots, jeans, and button-down shirt that probably used to be green plaid but is more like tan plaid now. There's a backpack on his back and a knife on his belt. And a gun—a Glock—the twin to my dad's gun, except his is fitted with a scratched and worn silencer. Silencers are used only when you want to kill someone without alerting others to your presence. A twinge of fear shudders through me.

Kevin takes a camouflage baseball cap from the table beside him and pulls it over his hair, which is in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. I jump from the sofa and let the sleeping bag slither down to my feet. “Are we leaving already?” I look at my watch. It's almost seven a.m. Stepping from the sleeping bag, I look around for my shoes and socks. They're where I left them, right beside the sofa.

“Jack.”

“What?” I start pulling on my socks.

“
I'm
leaving. You are staying here.”

I have put on both of my socks and shoved one of my feet into a shoe before his words sink in. Dropping my shoelaces, I look at him. “What did you say?”

“You can't come. I'm going alone.”

“
What?”

“To find your friends. I'm going alone. That”—he gestures toward the exit—“is no place for a . . .” He studies me for a long moment. “For a
twelve-year-old
.”

I glare at him and yank my shoelaces tight, then get my other shoe, pulling it onto my foot.

“I'll be back as soon as I can. Help yourself to whatever you want to eat,” Kevin says, walking to the exit.

“I'm coming with you,” I insist, tying my other shoe.

“Bye, Jack.” His eyes meet mine for a brief second, and then he steps out the door, shutting it behind him. I stand and run into the kitchen for my backpack—there's no way I'm sitting here alone while he goes out looking for my friends. I'll follow him if I have to. I loop the backpack over one shoulder, sprint to
the exit, twist the doorknob, and tug. My hand flies off of the handle and I stumble backward. I twist the knob again and realize it won't twist. Putting both my hands on the knob and bracing a foot on the doorframe, I pull as hard as I can. The door stays firmly shut.

“Kevin!” I scream. Balling my hands into fists, I pound on the door and scream his name again, but the door stays shut, and Kevin never answers.

I twist the metal key on the side of the kerosene lamp and the flame dies. Dim sunlight filters into the shelter, making it unnecessary to use the kerosene lamp during the day. The light comes from several round glass circles in the ceiling—skylights of some sort.

The lock on the exit is completely unpickable, though not for a lack of trying. I've read books on lock-picking and even learned how to pick the locks on my house. The shelter door won't unlock.

When I resign myself to the fact that I'm a prisoner, I give in to my Kevin-induced fury and start going through all of his stuff. Total revenge. I sort through a small chest of drawers in the main room. It's filled with a few pairs of boxer shorts, jeans, a couple of torn shirts, and ball caps. Boring.

Next I rummage through all his metal sculpting stuff. Tools. Tools. Leather gloves. Tools. Even more boring.

I take the cushions from the sofa and look under them, and I find some stale popcorn, a handful of pennies, a single bullet,
and lots of lint. I examine the chairs, look under the rug for a nonexistent secret door, and rummage through the bathroom cabinet again (and borrow some floss for my teeth). Kevin says he lives here, but it's not like he
really
lives here. Aside from the wire sculptures and his underwear, there's nothing personal here, nothing that really tells me more about him.

My stomach rumbles, so I go to the kitchen and take out the buttermilk pancake mix and powdered eggs. While my breakfast is cooking, I mix a cup of powdered milk. In a matter of minutes I am sitting at the small round table nestled in the kitchen's corner, eating steaming pancakes and eggs. Dad always says hunger is the best spice. He's right. I have never tasted anything so delicious. After two pancakes, I get a container of powdered sugar and sprinkle it onto the remaining two pancakes. As the sugar melts onto my tongue, I melt against my chair.

When my food is eaten and my belly feels like it's on the verge of popping, I go to Kevin's dresser and get a pair of jeans with tears over both knees and a comfortably worn red hoodie with a torn shoulder and sleeves that completely cover my hands, and is bulky enough to hide any trace of curves. I swap my clothes for his and put mine—everything but the vest—into the sink, scrubbing them with the bar of soap and then laying them on the counter to air-dry. I get Kevin's bloody shirt from the day before and scrub it next, laying it on the counter beside my shirt.

While I wait for the clothes to dry, I start going through the kitchen cupboards one by one, already thinking about what I am going to eat for my next meal. If I have to be a prisoner, I suppose this is the way to do it. The cupboards over the sink and
stove all contain food—dehydrated beef stew, dehydrated soy meat substitute, potato flakes, biscuit mix, chocolate pudding mix, freeze-dried bananas and strawberries. My mouth waters despite my full belly. Kevin has more food variety than I have seen in three years—since the pesticide destroyed everything that survived the honeybee decline. It makes me wonder about him again. Who is he and how in the world did he find this place?

The cupboards beneath the sink are loaded with supplies: candles, matches, lighters, batteries, bullets (though no guns), flashlights, flares, rope, needles and thread, sunblock, ponchos, all sorts of different sizes of random shoes—more things than I can remember.