WALTER SMITH:
We’d been walking for four days.
Three since I fell into a lake and cut open my arm on a broken branch. Two since Daisy stepped into an ant pile and was bitten at least twenty times.
Do you know how much an eight-year-old complains?
You don’t. And it’s been worse since the ants.
We huddled under a Zone D bank drive-through. I’d managed to put together a fire from broken sticks and paper cups in the trash. Lopsided, of course—I built it with one hand.
But we were surviving, so that was something, right?
The cut on my arm was bad. Not infected, not yet.
Daisy watched as I peeled off my shirt, unscrewed my water bottle. Half full.
I hesitated.
Sepsis? Or a parched throat?
I poured the water over the gash on my arm.
Dirt and blood on the cement floor. And water. I think that hurt more than the stinging in my arm.
“You’re hurt, and it’s too quiet,” Daisy whined, scratched at an ant bite on her ankle. “We should go back to the Run-downs.”
The Run-downs.
A rattling noise deep in my ears. For a second, I couldn’t tell if it was real or a memory.
The way they sized you up, knowing exactly what you had left to steal.
The way you automatically crouched whenever boots crunched gravel.
The way the rust smell seemed to touch the very back of your throat.
My voice was harsher than I expected. “We’re never going back to the Run-downs.”
The fire crackled and popped. Small, but warm. Can’t complain: It cooked the last of our dried beans.
“Okay.” I handed her the larger portion. “Hope you like saltine crackers. It’s all we’ve got now.”
She scooted closer and rested her head on my good arm. Clutched her tattered stuffed bunny.
“Are we going where Mommy went?”
Her mom, my aunt, was in the WorkForce.
“No. We’re going somewhere better.”
I had no clue where we were going.
She twisted her face. “I wanna go where Mommy went.”
I wrapped my arm around her. Made up some half-truth: Her Mommy asked me to take care of her. For now. “You’ll see her again soon.”
The moisture in her eyes reflected the fire. She pressed her nails into an ant bite on her knee.
Daisy was right, it was too quiet. The wind blew, and the trees clattered, and every now and then, something would crack. My hand jumped to my pocketknife, and I strained my ears, my eyes, trying to make out the dark shapes around us.
Nothing. Always nothing.
I rested my back against the brick wall, counted my breaths. Eight. Ten. Twelve.
Daisy grabbed my jacket from the floor and stuck her hands in its pockets. Pulled out two sleeves of saltine crackers. My pocketknife. A few twisted paperclips—my lock-picking tools. The front tooth she’d lost the other day.
She held the tooth in front of my face. “Still no pillow.”
“We’ll find one.” I pushed her hand away. “Then the tooth fairy will find you.”
“And she’ll give me a hundred bucks!”
“How about a spork?” I had a broken spork in my other pocket.
Daisy sighed dramatically. “Fine.” She rolled up my jacket, lay down next to me, and rested her head on it. “My leg is itchy.”
I reached over and placed her bunny next to her face. Tried not to think about who should’ve been here, helping me.
But I did anyway. My older brother joined the Crime Prevention Corps three years ago, and I hadn’t heard from him since. It was supposed to be a few months. I was twelve when he left. Fifteen, now. I thought maybe he’d be at the Run-downs, maybe he’d be looking for me, too. Ha.
I needed to get over it.
Daisy tapped my shoulder. “Is it true this used to be a bank?”
At least I’d been smart enough to find this spot for the night. We had cover and enough airflow for a fire. All to ourselves! Uptown luxury right here.
“Yeah. Now let’s try to get some sleep.”
“Do you think they still have lollipops left?”
That made me laugh. “Probably not. The entire place is stripped down.”
She twisted her face and pressed it into my jacket.
“Hey.” I nudged her. “You wanna hear a story? Will that help you fall asleep?”
She scratched at a bite on her hand. “Will it be a good story?”
“Yes.”
I thought for a second. “A long time ago,” I began, “there was a soldier. He was brave. He fought for his family at home. He thought about them every day.”
I told Daisy about how this soldier went to a magical land where every pen was out of ink. Where every pencil was too dull to write with.
“He was sad.” I stared into the fire. “Because he couldn’t write any letters. But he read the ones his mom and brother sent.”
I told her how he ate wonderful food every day. How he was planning on coming back home soon.
I got into it. More than I should’ve for a dumb bedtime story, and when I looked over at her, she was asleep.
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James,
Mom and I miss you a lot, and we can’t wait for you to come home.
I hope you’re getting my emails. Mom says the computers at the library won’t be available to us anymore. So now I have to write to you on paper. Kind of weird, huh?
I know you’re busy, so no pressure on replying quickly, but do you think you can send something to Mom? Her birthday is coming up, and I think she’d like to hear from you. She’s kind of worried, you know.
Anyway, stay safe, and I can’t wait to get something back from you soon! Mom and I have a bunch of hearts and a smiley face sticker on the day you’re supposed to come home. I’ve stacked your bio samples neatly and I’ve written down the growth rate of your lemon trees. We’ll transplant them into the ground when you get back. Oh, and I got full marks on my bio test! Your study sessions really helped!
Also, Fio says hi and she misses you.
Love,
Walter
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