Lindsey Renee Backen's Blog, page 3

Novella: Chapter Seven - The Gift

Making a plan and carrying it out were two entirely different things. If she had thought life was slow in her village, here it was like trying to drizzle honey on a cold day. She had unpacked her crate with the few items Mrs. Alcott hadn’t taken. She had ripped the side of the extra pillow creating a hiding spot for the items she would pilfer for her escape and noted their locations in the house, though she hadn’t worked up the courage to see if Neil would notice them missing. It did no good to have signs of a planned flight while the door still barred her attempt.

She’d have to watch Neil, to see how he created fire, though it was possible that he simply cooked each meal in the little, beepy box. But she’d seen a candle in the living room that claimed to smell like cashmere and white amber—whatever that smelled like. They must have some way to light it. Her mind interrupted with today’s list of problems, and she quieted it by whispering, “Water. Find a way to carry water.”

Her package from Clark sat on her bedside table, still concealed in wrinkled butcher paper and twine, its ragged presence ruining the pristine clean-cut lines all around the room. She hadn’t wanted to open it, wanted it less now than ever. But she stretched across the bed to retrieve it, pulled the twine free, and carefully unfolded the paper.

A book.

She’d guessed it, but this book was new, still smelling of ink and fresh paper. She cracked open the spine, spying a long list of words all beginning with the letter ‘M’ and all with their meaning coming just after. This wasn’t from the school or even the Blackwell’s tiny library.

She bit her lip, suddenly wondering if this had been a gift to Clark on the eve of his expected journey to the school in the city. She peeked at the front pages. The title of the book was “Dictionary,” and the copyright was scarcely five years old. It must have cost Mr. Blackwell a year of payments for well water. The pages smelled a little like hay and the distinct floral tones that emanated from the bowls of dried flower petals that sat around Clark’s house.

Pain was a strange sensation. The material of her dress was softer than she’d ever felt, her elbows sank into the mattress she lay on, her body was relaxed, lacking its usual soreness. Yet pain came as an ebb and flow as she touched the book, as memories rose. Clark’s face made her heart squeeze until she wiped all thoughts away. Even if she hadn’t been chosen as a captive, she still would be held at arm’s length with Clark, lacking even school hours to orbit around each other. All she had left was this book—and his handwriting. She blinked, seeing faded lines of ink and turned the page to see his familiar script.

#

Katie,

You’re going away. Probably forever. I'm not expecting you to come back, but I don’t want you to leave still thinking I chose an inheritance over you. I’m sorry I dropped your hand. I didn’t want to. It’s not the inheritance. It’s our well. If my dad disowns me, I won’t inherit the well. If I don’t inherit the well, I can’t control it. If I can’t control it, I have to stand by and keep watching my family demand payment for water. When your father died from drinking the river water, it almost killed me. That is why I can’t - yet - bring you into my life. But it’s not because I don’t want you there. That is what I wanted to ask you before I knew you were going away. If you would be willing to wait, to wait in secret, but not forever. But now you are going away. I want to stop you, but I won’t.

Clark

P. S. I hope you find everything you ever wanted.

 

She flung the book aside. Rocked. Scolded herself for crying. Cried harder. Memories brushed the blackness in her mind, just beneath the surface yet refusing to show themselves.

It was too late. She'd flung herself into a new world full of strangers. A world she hadn’t been raised for. A world she didn’t know how to survive in. A world with different rules than she’d ever known. Her selfishness, her desire to be seen as a polished woman, had trapped her. She pulled her knees in closer. Stopped her tears with anger, letting it flow into a semblance of productivity. She couldn’t live the rest of her life here. Somehow, she had to get a message out, had to find her way home.

She traced Clark’s handwriting, pushed herself off the bed and strode to the kitchen to busy herself with the only thing that gave any sort of normalcy or rhythm to her days. The more she ate, the stronger she would be to travel home.

She eyed Neil, who glanced back from his place on the couch, never stalling the clatter of his fingers on the keyboard. She passed him, opened the door, and counted the containers. Only four left.

“Neil?” she asked. “Will your parents come back before the food runs out?”

He shrugged with a calmness that baffled her. But food had to come in sometime and it couldn’t pass through walls...

“So... how do you get more food if it runs out?”

He pointed toward the tin square at the door. She glanced at it, then moved out of his sight to put the food into the tiny oven. Her hands shook. So the little square did open... somehow. A human must physically carry the groceries to bring them, someone like Tucker would be on the other side of the door when it did. If she couldn’t fit through, maybe a piece of paper could.

The machine beeped. She seized the opportunity for conversation. “Neil, what do you call the beeping box?”

It took him so many seconds to answer that she began to think that he wouldn’t, but suddenly, he hovered near the doorway.

“Microwave,” he said.

She scrunched her nose. “A micro wave of... heat?”

He shrugged.

“Y’all have weird names.”

He grinned. “Pitchfork.”

“That’s not weird.”

He wagged his head.

“Okay, it’s a little weird. Not as weird as an oven called “tiny waves.” She saw him grin and ventured carefully, “So, will these groceries be delivered before we run out of food in that... what’s that called?”

“Refrigerator,” he answered, then swallowed before he continued, “One box... each... meal.”

“Then more comes?”

He nodded.

“What if the crops fail?”

“Hmm?”

“If the farmers don’t bring food. Y’all don’t store anything ahead?”

He shrugged again. “Never... ran out.”

She frowned. “We have.”

Neil picked up his portion and motioned her to the couch. “Of food?”

“Yeah. Especially at the beginning of spring. You have to stop eating the grain or you’ll have nothing to plant, but there’s not a lot of crops producing yet. We’ll still have salted meat, but you have to look for dandelions and chickweed or you’ll get sick just eating meat. I guess they store it here better because of... ridged-ators.”

His mouth curled up, eyes sparkling, and she amended, “What’d you call it?”

“Refrigerator,” he said. “Who's ‘we’?”

“Mallory and me. She’s my sister.”

He blinked. “I thought... you’re alone.”

“No.” She settled in, watching him as she spoke, “I have a sister and a brother-in-law. They were so excited for me to come to school. They made me promise to write and tell them all about it.”

Neil’s face broke into a thousand tiny lines, before he lifted his eyebrows back into their place and reached for the remote. He hit the button and the lions appeared again.

“This your village?” he asked.

“Uh... no,” she said. “That doesn’t look like where I come from. But there are... other places. I saw them on an old map.”

“Other places... on this too,” he said. “But... I like... the lions.”

She finished her meal and lay with her head in her elbow, watching two male lions wrestle, their claws slashing trails of torn flesh. But Neil’s attention outlasted hers and after they’d finished fighting and the lady lions were pulling apart a gazelle, she retrieved Clark’s dictionary from her room. She would rather read there, but she forced herself to return.

Neil sent a surprised flicker of a smile as she settled back onto the couch next to him. He turned his attention to the animals, only moving his eyes in response to the changing images. She could still see the lions’ tiny reflections in his pupils, noticed the red blood vessels bursting through the white. Perhaps he watched without seeing, the way her eyes scanned lines of words without comprehension. Perhaps he watched to avoid his own thoughts. She knew only that he didn’t look away until one lion had run away, leaving the lone victor to return to his pride.

The show turned back to the grazing gazelles—gazelle scenes rarely ended happily—and she returned her eyes to the page, flipping idly through and careful not to show Clark’s handwriting.

She heard the soft crackle of a swallow. The rush of air through his nostrils. The dry pop as his lips parted, all in a second. Then he spoke.

“I’ll protect you.”

She froze, page midturn, cocked her head only enough to see that he still studied the screen. “From what?” she asked.

His pupils fell, roved as though they were searching for a pile of words scattered on the table, choosing them as carefully as currency. He blinked twice. Pulled in another breath. “Anything.”

Novella: Chapter Six - The Reward

She woke on the bathroom floor. Her shoulder ached, cushioned only by the shower mat. The towel, softer than any clothing she had at home, pressed against her cheek. She stared at the line of floor beneath the door and the dark bottom edge of the breakfast plate that blocked out the light beyond the crack.

The room smelled like soap, chemicals, and bacon. She shut her eyes again as her stomach growled, resisting the lifelong urge that whenever food was present, you ate as much as you could get. Twice yesterday, Neil had tried to bribe her with food. The second time, it was all she could do to fight the urge to open it just long enough to slide the plate inside.

But she had gone days without food. She had a water source right here. She even had the use of the toilet, a benefit she hadn’t realized until last night. She could exist in this room until Mr. and Mrs. Alcott returned. Her eyes wandered up the slick walls to the tiny vent that was the only opening in the room besides the door.

Exist. But not escape.

She curled her fingers into a fist, brought her knees close to her chest. Why had they locked the house doors? Would they unlock them when they returned? Were they truly locking her in—or locking something else out?

Either way. The door was locked, and the only way out was to figure out how to unlock it, hope that Mr. or Mrs. Alcott would, or convince Neil to show her how.

Her heart awakened like a tiny mouse, stirring, then slamming against her chest as Neil’s feet plodded back across the carpet.

He’d used up the rich tones of his voice, retaining only a croak that hardly carried past the door. “I need in.” Defeat rasped the edges of his voice, desperation lending a feeble urgency to the tone. “Please.”

The final word irked. She resisted rolling her eyes. But if he wasn’t already her enemy, staying in here would make him one. She chose plan A: figure out how to unlock the door. Her legs felt like hardened stone, and she gasped as she stood, wobbling to the door.

She grasped the lock, closed her eyes. He hadn’t hurt her so far, hadn’t done anything more aggressive than kick the door. Her throat still pumped as she twisted the lock and stepped into the hallway.

Neil shoved a breakfast plate into her chest, spun himself around the edge of the door and closed it, leaving her standing alone. She heard a stream from inside, realized her window of time was short, and darted to the front door. It was exactly as she remembered it, a smooth, immobile handle, good for nothing except pulling the door shut. She searched the wall around it for a bar, a lock, a box of buttons, anything. She clapped. Even jumped. Pushed and pulled. The only movable part seemed to be the metal square near the base, but it did little except wiggle beneath her prodding and peeling.

From the bathroom, she heard jets of water start. She ran upstairs to the rooms she hadn’t been inside. There had to be a window somewhere. She darted past the miniature houses, landscapes, and vehicles into a bedroom as large as the kitchen at home, finding a massive bed. Paintings lit from behind cast a glow across the room. One of them was an ocean view, backlit so that the sun looked red. She ripped it off the wall, finding only a cord running to tiny lights in the frame. She hung it up so quickly that it wobbled and fell with a crash as she ran to the next room.

And stopped, coming face to face with the same creature Neil had watched on the screen. It stood like a giant cat near the bed, one foot forward, mouth wide, teeth nearly the size of her finger. She gasped but halted her scream. The lion stared back, its stance frozen, no twitch from its skin. She took a slow step back, then swayed forward. It was real. No, it wasn’t.

She blinked. Inched toward the creature. It watched the doorway behind her. No blinking eyes, no flickering ears, no sound coming from that gaping mouth.

But it was real.

She stepped closer, studying the hairs, like a pelt still on the animal. How had they kept its meat? Stuffed it? She watched the ribs, but they stayed still. Resisting all urge to snatch her own hand back, she touched the fur. Definitely real. Definitely dead. The glassy eyeball watched her, face pointed toward the doorway.

The shrill ring came again, this time from a white machine next to the bed. Katie lifted the top part, but before she spoke, Neil’s voice floated through the machine.

“Hello?”

Katie jumped as Mr. Alcott's voice came across the line. “AIDA notified me that you never turned in your work yesterday.”

“... The girl—”

“Is meant to be a reward for you, son, not a distraction.”

“Mom...”

“You don’t listen to what your mom says. You listen to what I say—shut up!—I’m talking, not you. You want to keep her?”

“Yes.”

“Then you make sure you do your work, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“What do you say?”

Silence.

Then the question was posted again in a sterner tone. “What do you say, son?”

“Sorry.”

Katie sank onto the bed. Her hand fell to her lap as she stared at the wall. Her stomach roiled the same way it had when she’d stood before her village, mind too frozen to supply the same answers she’d rattled off in the classroom. They’d picked her, not Clark, not Allison. Not for a scholarship. For a reward.

She sucked in a slow breath and lifted the device back to her ear, but the men had finished talking. She returned it to its place, stood, and pulled the wrinkled blanket to cover the evidence.

And then he was standing in the hallway behind her. She spun, stepping next to the creature like it would defend her. Neil stood, clad only from the waist down with a towel. His arms rippled like those of a baker, but his hands hung loosely at his side. His skin was so light, it reflected the lamplight, rippling wide strips of muscle like a horse. She blushed, blinked, realized even Clark, whose family managed two solid meals each day, shrank into a skeletal figure next to Neil. Panic switched her mind back into gear, going straight to plan C. Whatever this man was, she needed to ensure he didn’t become her enemy.

“Well, deary,” Allison’s voice came unbidden. “Where do you want his emotions to go?”

Right now, if his face was any sign, he had no dominant emotion beyond mild surprise to find her in his bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, motioning toward the lion. “I saw him, and I thought... he was real. Alive, I mean.” She stepped away from the lion and toward the man in the door, but he inclined his head. “I’ll leave your room,” she sputtered. “If you’ll let me.”

He blinked, almost shaking himself from his own thoughts, if he had any. He stepped into the room, closer to her but clearing the doorway.

His eyes lifted toward the corner of the room, then back at her. “Go wash.”

Her stomach clenched so tightly it felt like her belly button met her spine.

“Don’t make him an enemy.”

She edged around him. “And then... we watch the lions?”

His eyes lit, head moving back an inch. Sparked with hope before they dulled. “Later,” he said.

“Okay,” she answered and strode back down the hallway.

No way out. No way out, except through Neil. She shut herself into the bathroom again, putting her palms against the sink and gulping for air. Her mind tried out plans like they were new outfits, one after the other, and each just as flimsy as the last. Whichever angle she took with him, she had to fully commit to the performance.

Nausea rose. He’d known when she’d entered the house that she wasn’t going to school. She was only his reward for good behavior. He’d deceived her. She’d find no friends in his parents either. No one would know anything was amiss until she never showed up to give a letter to Tucker—but did they really expect her to?

His chitchat floated into her head.

“It’ll be a lot different there for a nice girl like you. You’re going to have to adapt.”

She sucked in breath after breath, gripping the counter. Adapt. Win Neil over. Get him to unlock the door. By whatever means necessary.

 

Novella: Chapter Five - Behind the Door

She sat on the bed, listening for the morning birds to tell her the time, knowing only that she had eaten dinner and slept, so now it should be the next day. There were no windows in her bedroom, only pictures of city girls posing in front of gray buildings stretching down long sidewalks or sitting at tables, sipping from giant mugs. One girl sat on a bed with her legs crossed, wearing bright pink shoes and a pink dress, and holding her index finger against her lips. None of them had brown hair.

There were no mirrors, and she was glad. She kept her hair behind her shoulders out of sight. She’d looked for her old dress, but it had vanished from the bathroom counter, along with her boots. Her second dress, too, was missing from the crate.

So she pulled on the new shoes and practiced walking until she could put her feet in front of each other without wobbling. Then she opened the door to venture down the hallway, but the bedrooms showed nothing except darkness beneath the doors.

“It’s better for sleeping,” Mrs. Alcott had explained. “Even a small amount of light in a room interferes with your ability to make melatonin and keeps you from a deep, restorative sleep.”

Katie’s sleep hadn’t been deep or restorative, though the bed was the softest place she’d ever laid, and the air was chilled like a mild winter. It could have been the most luxurious night of her life had not visions of Neil’s stony silence during dinner plagued her thoughts.

Why didn’t he want her here?

She wondered how she could win him, then shoved the idea away. Neil was like a Blackwell, viewing her through a biased lens that likely would never change. She was here to go to school and go to school she would. She’d done nothing to apologize for, so whatever he was feeling, he’d just have to work through on his own.

Still, she slowed as true growls floated in from the living room and a voice she didn’t recognize said, “As the youngest male lion in the pride, an attempt at a takeover is especially dangerous for young Amari. If his father is driven away by the younger male, the first thing the new dominant lion will do is kill him, along with the other cubs.”

There hadn’t been a window the day before, but Katie stopped as a creature that looked a little like a mountain lion moved behind a large rectangle in the wall. She stepped back on impulse, then watched as the animal disappeared and reappeared, suddenly swimming through a river, like someone was flipping through photographs. Only they moved—and the unknown man’s voice continued to narrate.

“But the lion attempting to take over the pride is not the only danger threatening Amari. To escape across the river, he must avoid another enemy—the crocodile.”

The moving photos continued to change, and Katie coaxed her breathing back into calm even though the next animal looked like an alligator. Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. But it looked real.

She crept into the living room, feeling her heart fall as she noted all seats were empty except for Neil’s. At the right of the room, a counter separated the carpet from the tile, standing like a short wall that guarded the kitchen. No one was in there, either.

Neil glanced toward her, then picked up a black rectangle. The creatures disappeared into darkness. The other voice disappeared too, leaving silence to stretch between them.

“Are your parents still asleep?” Katie asked.

Neil’s eyes fell to his fingers as he picked at a loose thread on his pants. He took three breaths before he spoke one word in a deep tone. “Gone.”

Katie’s chin jutted forward. “When are they coming back?”

Neil shrugged. He stood and ambled past the counter to a white, upright refrigerator like the one Katie used to seal off the salted pork, but when he opened the door a puff of cold air wafted toward her. He pulled out a square black container and put it into a smaller box, hitting a button that hurt her ears with a beep. The box's window lit up and the container began a slow spin.

Katie gripped the door frame, but Neil didn’t seem mad today.

“Why can’t you talk?” she asked.

He glared at her, yanked open the box, and pulled out the container. She almost expected him to toss it out the front door, but he plopped it in front of her and pulled back the clear paper on top.

The smell of bacon and eggs hit her nose. She stared at the rising steam as he dug into a drawer and sent a fork skidding across the counter toward her.

She caught it at the counter’s edge. “Thanks.”

She didn’t hate it now—the smell of bacon—though it oddly made her heart ache. She sat on one of the stools, piercing the scrambled egg.

Neil leaned an arm on the counter and watched her.

She brought the egg to her mouth, chewed, caught the wince. The taste was similar, but it was like chewing rubber.

“Hurts,” Neil said.

“What does?” she asked.

His head tipped, though he kept his eyes on her.

“Oh. To talk?”

He nodded.

“Do you know why?”

He shook his head.

She snapped the bacon into a small piece and tasted it gingerly. It, at least, was crispy. “Well, maybe that’s because you don’t use it enough. Like muscles. The more you use them, the less they hurt when you do. I mean... within reason.”

His eyes dropped and dulled.

She ate another mouthful of eggs. Wondered if Mrs. Alcott's assessment of her son’s mental capacity was heavily blinded by motherly love. “Thanks for breakfast.”

His eyes flickered back to her face and the corners of his mouth twitched and fell again to their stoic stance. She tried to think of yes or no questions.

“Do you go to the college too?”

His eyebrows dipped, and she couldn’t tell if he was offended or confused, but he shook his head no.

“Are you... older than twenty?”

He gave a short nod, then held up two fingers.

“Twenty-two?”

Another nod.

“Do you have siblings?”

His head jerked backward, the eyebrows drawing deeper, and she amended. “Brothers or sisters?”

He blinked and shook his head.

“Are you leaving the house today too?”

His shoulders shrank and the dopey look returned. But he shook his head, slower now.

She wasn’t sure when she was supposed to leave for the school or where it should be. But hunger had awakened, and she focused on finishing up the food offered. Neil leaned back onto his forearm, content with silently staring.

She wished Clark was here.

“How’d the food get hot so fast?” she blurted before blushing, realizing he couldn’t answer.

But he pointed to the smaller box.

“Well, I know that. We have one of those at home,” she said. “It belonged to my great-grandmother. We keep our bread in it.”

He tilted his head.

 She shrugged. “Nothing happens when you hit the buttons at home. Your house is nothing but buttons.”

He scanned the house, then walked to the door, glancing backward toward her. When she looked up, he disappeared, then peeked back in. After he disappeared a second time, she followed him down the hallway. He led her up a flight of stairs to another open room that had doorways on each wall, one to the hallway and three to what looked to be bedrooms.

Rows of shelves held tiny structures, some created to look like miniature cars, some scraggly bushes that created landscapes. He picked up one of the boats, holding it an inch from her nose. She scanned the structure, the tiny men that were glued to the bow.

She replaced confusion with a weak smile, wishing she’d finished her breakfast. “Did you make this?”

He nodded, then flung it back onto the shelf, spinning toward a castle that sat half-finished on a small table. Again glanced toward her, and again she followed.

Near the structure sat a sheet of pieces all held captive in their molds. The castle was unfinished, though several pieces had been freed and painted. But four sailors had been moved from the ship into the castle, two near a table in the courtyard and two on the wall staring straight ahead over the pair on the ground.

“Um... ” Katie faltered.

Neil sighed. Took one on the men from the wall, moved him to the drawbridge, and then spun the wheel until the board lifted to cover the gateway.

“I don’t know what—” Katie began.

He seized her wrist, almost yanked her to another scene, now a landscape with moss instead of bushes where large cats stalked brown and black animals that looked like striped deer. His demeanor changed, as he allowed her a glance, then moved to a different model in rapid succession. Never lingering over any except the castle, never moving any pieces. The rest of the sailors stayed put on their ship.

He flashed her a smile before his face returned to its neutral mask. He spun and headed down the stairs.

She followed slowly. “Where did your parents go?”

She should have waited to ask until he reached the bottom because all she caught of the reply was the back of his shoulders as he shrugged.

“Are they coming back today?”

Another shrug. He turned at the bottom into a door she hadn’t noticed before. He punched in a code next to it. The door opened without his aid and an acidic smell hit her, giving her an instant headache. They stepped onto a tile floor and her eyes fell on a rectangle hole, filled with clear water. Lights like globes hung from the ceiling. Clear chairs, longer at the bottom than the top, rimmed the room. At the far corner, water flowed down a pile of rocks into the rectangle like a spring.

“Is this where your water comes from?” she asked.

One side of his face scrunched but he shook his head, then set his palms together, one hand flat fingered, the other cupped. The cupped hand straightened, then his fingers curved over down toward the pool. He sat down like it was a dock, pulling off his shoes and letting his feet into the water.

“Do you swim in that?” she asked.

He nodded and grinned, then pointed to her.

She shook her head. “No... not now.”

She wondered if it was deep enough to cover her head. She searched for fish, but there didn’t seem to be plants or creatures in it. “Is it just for swimming? We don’t swim much where I come from.”

His body sagged, eyes already falling away from her face to the water.

“The only water is at the river,” Katie said. “And it’s not good water. Sometimes it’s safe, and there’s lots of fish. Then we go in. But sometimes the fish die because something washes down from the city. If you get in the water and your legs are scratched, you can get infected. And... if you drink it, you’ll die. So we don’t... swim much.”

The story had gotten his attention, and his eyes pierced hers in direct contact until it was finished. He eyed his water again, blinking, but then shrugged.

“I know there’s no poison in here, probably, but... ” She cut herself off, wishing she hadn’t brought any of it up. He didn’t need to know that she couldn’t swim. Not until she trusted him. She glanced at the concrete walls, feeling choked by the stifling air.

“Do you want to go on a walk?” she asked.

He cocked his head like he didn’t understand. He nodded slowly and pushed himself to his feet, walking to a machine near the wall. He reached over the white bars to press a button and the black path began to move beneath.

She stared. “What is that?”

He stared back, then jumped onto the black strip, falling into a quick walk as his path moved behind him and swept beneath the machine. He took three strides that went nowhere, then stood until the machine carried him to the edge where he jumped off. He pointed toward her, then it.

“No, I mean a real walk,” she stammered, “outside. You could show me your village... city.”

“Can’t,” he said.

“What?”

“Go out.”

She eyed him, then strode down the hallway, past the couch, feeling her breath pick up as though dispelling the foul air but still unable to get the kind of breath that outside air could afford. She heard the door shut behind her, the beep, his steps catching up.

She quickened her pace, swinging around the entryway and nearly hit the front door with her body. Grabbed the curved handle and yanked. A bolt caught the door from inside, only allowing the slightest rattle. She swallowed, feeling her throat begin to close. Fighting for air, she glanced for a number pad like he’d used, but there was nothing. She snapped like Mrs. Alcott had to open the drawers, but the door gave no response.

She used the last of her stored breath to ask, “What’s the code?”

Silence behind her.

She yanked on the door again, looking for a button, a turning lock, even a latch. But the handle was little more than a curved bar attached to the wood.

A decorative steel square sat at the bottom and made her think of the door that Allison’s dog came through. She pushed it with her foot, then tried to peel the top away but it held fast.

“Neil!” she choked. “Open the door.”

 She turned. He watched her from the hall entrance with his hands tucked under his armpits.

Back door. There was a back door. She bolted past him, shoving one side of his chest, though he hadn’t actually blocked her way. Darted to the back door, to find the same mocking handle. She shook it but it didn’t even rattle as she turned her eyes back toward the man.

“Neil, please. I need... I don’t know how... The door.”

Neil had only pivoted in place, still staring at her from across the room. His eyes had widened, one nostril flared like he, too, struggled to breathe.

She fought for calm, seeing her panic reflected in his eyes.

“How do you open the door?” she asked.

His eyes fell from her, searching the couch, the lamp that sat on the table beside it, then the air itself as his gaze traveled away from her. He swallowed. “You don’t.”

She yanked on the door, shouting, “Open this door!”

He took a step back, surprise flickering before his eyebrows began to quake. He glanced toward the corner of the ceiling again.

“Calm down. You’re going to scare it.” Clark’s voice broke through the onslaught of panicked thoughts. Only Clark had been talking about a skunk they had come across in the woods, not a fully-grown man.

Katie’s eyes followed Neil’s attention, finding only another black circle in the ceiling the size of half an orange where the ceiling met two solid walls. Walls she couldn’t break through.

She thought of her bedroom, the darkness last night because it, too, lacked windows. Even the room with the swimming pond—the closest she’d seen to nature—was surrounded by walls.

Her mind prowled the layout of the house, a rough box shape, its maze of doors and hallways, cataloging each room she had seen. Rooms filled with furniture outlined with blue lights, globes lighting the rooms from the ceiling, soft yellow light spilling from lamps. No rays from the sun anywhere. No openings anywhere, except the two doors.

She stared at the man who only stared back, watching his broad shoulders hunch and his hands creep into his pockets.

A shrill sound pierced the silence. She jumped, but his only reaction was a complete fall of his gaze to the floor. A second shriek, and he walked to the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. He picked up a curved white thing, connected by a spiraling tail to its base. Sucked in a second breath, then said in the polished tone he’d used the day before, “Hello?”

She heard another voice, sharp consonants of “ts, ds,” and a “c” but the voice was muffled, like the day after the dance when Mr. Blackwell had berated Clark in an upstairs room while she stood on the sidewalk, realizing she should come back later. Only now, there was nowhere to go.

“How?” Neil asked.

He blinked at the answer.

Katie bolted for the bathroom, the only room in the house that had a lock, the only room where only one person was allowed. She jabbed it, heard its lock slide into place, and paced toward the shower where the water came from somewhere besides the rectangle pool.

“You can’t let them know you’re afraid,” Clark’s voice came again, this time talking about his own relatives.

She gripped her hair, pacing four lengths one way then the other.

The door rattled.

She grabbed the loose lid from the back of the toilet, hefting it, realizing even as she did that Neil was so tall, she’d only manage to smash his face if he did manage to get in. And then what? She’d still be locked in the house until his parents returned. He could easily hold her down, pick her up, move her anywhere he wanted.

She spied the shadow of his two feet appearing, first one than the other, under the crack of the door. She tightened her grip, tensing, waiting.

But the feet only rose and fell like a cat kneading the carpet. His voice was still deep, but it rasped around the edges again as he said, “Come out.”

“No!”

Silence. The feet didn’t move.

“Come out,” he tried again.

“Not until your parents are back.”

The shadows shifted, first one than the other.

“We... can... watch... the lions.”

Her eyebrows drew lower with each halting word, the first three spoken slowly, the last two as one.

She said nothing.

He panted. Rasped, “Please.”

Her arms trembled beneath the weight of the toilet lid.

“Don’t scare it,” Clark said again.

She lowered her arms, eased the lid back onto its place.

Neil growled. She froze.

One of the shadows disappeared. A loud crack rattled the door.

She screamed, stumbling backward until her back hit the glass shower.

“Neil, if you come in here, I will bash your head in!”

The shrill noise returned, summoning Neil away like a dog to a dinner bell.

She pressed her ear against the door, but he was too far to hear any words at all. In a few moments, a calmer voice floated down the hallway. Lions began to roar.

Novella: Chapter Four - The Shift

Katie saw grass first, clipped short and even like someone had taken a scythe to the entire lawn in one flat motion. Then a stately red brick house so tall she had to lift her chin to see the gray roof with neat rows of tiles. A concrete slab wound its way to a white door with no screen. There were no windows, even though every other building on the street had them.

She followed the couple to the house, expecting to find a storage area on the other side of the door. But it opened into an entryway where a glass table lined the wall and the white stone tile had been polished so highly that it reflected her boots. The entryway opened into a larger room with white carpet and walls, two cloth-covered chairs, and a long blue couch.

A young man rose quickly from the couch, set down a black tray of food, and turned startled eyes toward them. She had never seen any face so uniform: his cheekbones were perfectly paralleled, his eyes the exact golden-brown color as his eyebrows and hair. His hair was clipped short, his skin smoother than she knew a guy’s could be as though someone had polished the stubble right off his face.

“Here we are, Neil,” Mrs. Alcott said.

The boy stared, blinking rapidly. His lips parted, but he said nothing. He took a breath, lost it at once.

“Well, aren’t you going to say hello?” Mrs. Alcott prompted.

His fingers closed into a loose fist at his side, then relaxed again. He swallowed, took a deep breath, then spoke in a smooth, resonating tone deeper than Katie had expected. “Hello.”

“Hi, I’m Katie,” she said.

His eyes flickered to his father, glistening like Clark’s did whenever he was asked a question at school he didn’t know.

“Hi?” he asked.

“This is our son, Neil,” Mrs. Alcott said.

Neil wet his lip, panted another breath, began to form a word, then shook his head. Blinked and swallowed.

“You’ll have to forgive Neil,” Mrs. Alcott said. “There’s nothing wrong with his brain. The problem is in his vocal cords. It’s difficult for him to speak sometimes. Other than that, he’s completely normal. Neil, do you want to show Katie her new room?”

Neil’s eyes slit, fanning trails of fine lines like tiny cracks as he turned toward his father who only held out Katie’s crate. His lips pinched, but he yanked the crate from his father’s hand and turned to stalk into a hallway. Katie fell into step behind him, staring at the white yarn that covered the floor and sank beneath her shoes.

The bedroom held a solid block of blue fabric from the blanket that had been tucked beneath the mattress. Two tiny white tables stood on opposite ends of the bed, with matching silver lamps that curved up like snakes, then toppled over like they were trying to peer at the sleeper. Even the headboard created an S shape, looming over the pillows.

Neil swung the crate onto a clear desk that almost blended in with the wall. He glanced into the top corner of the ceiling at a black half-circle that marred the white ceiling, then turned to Katie.

He was so tall that her eyes were level with his chest, close enough to see the buttons on his shirt move with his gasping breath.

“Are you all right?” Katie asked. “Are you having trouble breathing?”

Apparently not, for his breathing only grew harder. He glanced at the door, then her. Then the boy growled.

Katie stepped back, clearing the path as he stormed out. She stood, stunned, rubbing her arms until Mrs. Alcott stepped into the door with a bright smile.

“I know it’s overwhelming at first, but you’ll catch on," the woman said. "See the lights? If you clap twice, they’ll go out.” She demonstrated, plunging Katie into deep darkness. “If you need to get up in the night, clap three times and . . .”

Light spilled from the lamps near the bed, casting the woman in a dim red color. Her nose created a shadow between her eyes that distorted her features as she explained, “The red won’t interfere with your melatonin levels, so you’ll sleep better. If you clap once . . .” The main light returned to its normal color.

“How are you doing that?” Katie asked.

“Electricity,” the woman explained. “Everything in the city is run by electricity. But it is limited, so be sure you turn out the lights when you’re not using a room. If you use too many things at once, we’ll go above our quota and the meter will cut it off. Neil hates the dark, and there’s no way to turn them back on without calling someone to come fix it. And that creates a fine. Rich hates fines. So only run a few things at a time. Got it?”

“I think so,” Katie said.

The woman spun on her heels and led her into the hallway.

“This is our bathroom,” Mrs. Alcott said, ushering Katie to the door on the left. “This is where you will get ready for the mornings. Do you know how to work a shower?”

“A . . . shower?” Katie asked. “Like rain?”

“Well, I . . . I guess it is like rain,” Mrs. Alcott said. She stepped to the counter with a domed sink, like what Katie used at home to hold the water when she washed her clothing before she drained the water into the garden. Only Mrs. Alcott swung her hand under the spout and water began to pour into the sink right from the spout above. Katie stared but it only lasted until the woman withdrew her hand. “You use this for washing your hands. That over there is the toilet. It’s like an outhouse. You have those don’t you?”

“We have toilets,” Katie said, “from before the Blackout. They just don’t work anymore.”

“Well, they work here,” the woman said. “They’re automatic too, so you don’t have to worry about anything.”

Katie peeked down the hallway toward the men. Mr. Alcott’s lips moved in a steady flow of words, his body angled near Neil. Neil rubbed his eye, listening carefully and nodding.

Mrs. Alcott shut the door and smiled brightly at her. “This is a private room,” she said, touching her finger to the round fixture on the door. It responded with a noise like a bolt sliding into a lock. “Just hold your finger here and the door locks, so no one will accidentally walk in on you.”

Katie obeyed and the door unlocked. She pushed it open.

Mrs. Alcott’s eyes met Katie’s. “It’s private. So, you must never be in here with anyone else. That is one of our rules.”

Katie shifted, feeling embarrassed anger rise in her chest. “We don’t bathe in front of people at home either,” she said.

“Good.” The woman smiled, reaching for a hairbrush. “Now, sit there.” She motioned to a chair so clear that it blended in with the counter it sat beneath. “We have to get you ready for college. So, you can try the shower in a few moments. You’ll love it. Just step under it, and it will come on just like the sink. But we have to fix your hair first.”

Katie blinked but obeyed, wondering why they should braid her hair before washing it. But the woman loosened her braid, gently guiding the brush through her hair and stroking it with her free hand.

“I always wanted a daughter,” she said. “You have beautiful hair. It’s a pity it’s so thin and long. Next time I go to the store, I’ll get you some conditioner. My hairdresser has some that is just wonderful.”

She snapped her finger near a drawer. It made a whirring sound and opened slowly, revealing a display of combs, brushes, curlers, and a pair of steel scissors. She reached for the scissors.

Katie stood, backed against the wall. “What are you doing?”

“Well, you can’t go to school looking like a village girl,” the woman explained.

“I am a village girl.”

“Trust me, darling. You don’t want to let your peers know your background, scholarship or not. No one wears their hair long anymore, and all the best and brightest students have chestnut coloring. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s the way things are. We’ve got to get you off to as good a start as possible. Don’t you want to be a city girl?”

Katie stroked her hair, randomly remembering the one time Clark had done the same thing. He wouldn’t like it . . . but would that matter? She did want to belong to this world. She sucked in several breaths, wondering if this was why they had not chosen Allison with her wild, wiry, red hair.

Consented with a nod because her throat was too tight to speak. Sat herself down and refused to look into her reflection, instead watching the men again. Neil had shifted, hidden by the doorway, but she saw his arms fold over his chest. He swayed toward his father then away.

“Why can’t Neil talk?” she asked.

The blades sliced through her hair.

“He’s never spoken much,” Mrs. Alcott said. “He didn’t even cry much as a baby, he was always such a good boy. He’ll warm up to you soon, don’t worry. He is shy, but he has a good heart.”

Katie said nothing because her throat had grown tighter with every snip of the scissors. Mrs. Alcott brought her hair forward, draping the blunt lines just over her shoulder.

“See?” the woman asked. “It’s still long. We could go shorter though if you want.”

“No,” Katie said.

“All right.”

Mrs. Alcott reached for a bottle. She squirted the brown foam into her hand and spread it through Katie’s hair. “This won’t stain your skin. It’s formulated just for hair,” she said. “Just rinse it out and use the shampoo. That’s the box in the shower to the right. The left will give you body wash. So left goes in your hair, right on your skin. If you want the water to be more hot or cold just say ‘hot’ or ‘cold,' but it should start at a comfortable temperature. There is a dress for you on that peg there. Just put your old dress in the corner, and we’ll throw it out. Be careful not to get the dye on the floor. The towels are there in the warmer, just take off the lid when you need one. I’ll see you when you’re ready.”

The woman shut the door and Katie locked herself in before she dropped her head against her arm and tried not to pant. Two feet of her hair lay discarded on the floor like piles of drying straw.

She stepped over it and shed her dress, folded it carefully, and set it on the counter. The shower started at soon as she stepped in, the water spraying directly into her face and leaving her sputtering. So much water. Buckets of it, delivered steaming just like that. It felt wonderful, but the shower walls were glass and even with the door locked, she felt exposed.

She pressed all over the shampoo box, but nothing happened until she put her hand under it. A squirt of thick liquid piled into her palm. She washed and rinsed her hair with a vengeance until the water ran clear. She scrubbed her skin until it was red and raw.

The water stopped as soon as she stepped onto the cushioned mat. She lifted the lid of the warmer, pulled out the toasted towel, and dried as quickly as she could. The new dress was shorter than the ones at home, the hem ending an inch above her knee instead of falling comfortably to her calves. She tugged, but there was no lengthening it, and it swished so high and loose that it felt like she was wearing only a shirt.

But it was beautiful. Shoes were placed carefully underneath, little more than straps over a thick curved base. They made her taller, which she liked, but the pegs felt tacked on without the solid heels of her boots and the shoe offered no protection for anything that her feet may meet.

She looked back into the mirror. A stranger with short brown hair stared back. The dress was a vibrant blue, drawing the neckline into a tight V shape, and sporting a silver chain that stretched across her bare skin.

She swallowed three times. She had to become a city girl now. No one at home would believe she was Katie.

Novella: Chapter Three - Crossing the Border

Despite her promise of nothing changing, Allison hadn’t spent the night or even shown up to say goodbye. Katherine had, finally bringing the finished dress, glowing with the idea that it would be seen by all the city people. The material was a creamy yellow, dyed with the goldenrod that grew nearly everywhere, it was plain but cheerful. Katie suspected by the dark circles under her friend’s eyes that she had stayed up all night working on it. Katherine squeezed her neck in a tight hug, then rushed out the door, already running late.

Katie packed her clothing in a crate, contemplating taking the quilt, but she decided to leave it for Mallory, for even in Texas the winters were miserably cold. She took only her clothing, wondering how different her life would be when she returned, if she even did return.

The screen door creaked and slammed, the sound suddenly nostalgic. Likely her house would no longer be here when she returned, for Mr. Blackwell was the first to throw down money for any scrap of land that came up for sale and once he bought it, he'd dismantle anything he could take apart to be sold for scraps. Their land was prime for farming so long as you had workers and seed.

It was strange to reach the town and find everyone rushing to their work. A few smiled at her. Several called out or offered a quick hug. But it was another day for them, another race to bring in crops, to load their offerings onto Tucker’s truck, to begin their apprenticeships on time.

Even Clark looked harried and pale clutching his satchel and looking straight ahead as he rode down the street.

She swallowed, uncertain if she should call out or leave him alone. Hating that their last interaction should have been an argument about futures, and now she wasn’t even sure what he was thinking. But he spotted her and turned his horse to cross the street toward her. He slid off the animal, but his face wore the stoic Blackwell mask.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said.

Katie swallowed. “Me too.”

The silence stretched as she tried to think of a way to ask if he still hoped she would wait or if his first rejection had shaken him into reality.

“Maybe I can find a way to get you there,” she teased weakly.

He smiled with no mirth. “I think I may have been unrealistic in that regard. Even my father’s money can’t get me into the city.” He took a breath. “But I also realized last night that a half-trained doctor is better than no doctor. So I guess I'd better stay here.”

“I guess you better,” she echoed.

His lips formed three different words as he struggled for a sentence, then shrugged and said, “Have fun.”

He opened his satchel and dug out a package wrapped in butcher paper, shoving it into her hands. Then he’d snapped his cap back onto his head in his usual manner, and mounted his horse, now properly saddled with no room for her. He hadn’t looked back. And neither could she.

She clutched the envelope feeling her throat tighten and searched for Tucker’s truck but, as usual, he was running late. So late that there was no escaping Mr. Blackwell. He offered her a smile that looked like Clark’s but lacked its warmth.

“I hope you realize,” the man said, “the enormous opportunity you’ve been given.”

“I do,” she answered, a tad defiantly.

“Clark and Allison will be held back for the rest of their lives for missing this chance,” he said. “Our entire town will be judged on your performance and your attitude.”

He eyed her. She tried to meet his stare but only managed to lift her eyes as far as his starched collar.

“I have wanted to live in the city for my entire life,” she said. “I am not going to squander or jeopardize this.”

“See that you don’t,” he said. “And while you’re there—for whatever degree you’re getting—find a way to stay there. You’ll do far more for this village by continuing to represent our people in the city and warm them up to allowing us in, than you will returning here. Jeremy will have enough mouths to feed, and Clark will be married before you return. You’d do better to find yourself a man from the city and stay there. Understood?”

“Understood,” she answered. She lifted her chin. “Not to be mistaken with agreed. You don’t own me, Mr. Blackwell.”

He almost smiled, but his face masked again. “No,” he said. “I do not own you. But I do own the well your sister and her husband drink from.”

Her heart burned as panic was swamped by rage. Why did he hate her that much? How dare he threaten her family if she ever returned to her own home? And who did he think he was, assuming that she would return as helpless as she left?

“Katie!” Tucker’s voice broke them up like throwing a stone between two cats.

He reached for her crate. “Ready?”

“Yes,” she said, and escaped the man who ran her town.

It was hard to look anywhere with the tires spinning up dust and the wind whistling through the windows lashing her hair into her eyes. She tucked the wayward strands behind her ear, irritated that her hair was too slick and thin to stay where she wanted it.

“You’re gonna love the city, Katie,” Tucker said. “There are things there you never even imagined. When you finish up in two years, you gotta at least come back for a visit and tell poor Tucker all about it. I seen those buildings in the distance all my life, but I never been up close.”

“Why not?”

“I just go to the city limit,” Tucker said. “Traders from inside the city come there. I give ‘em what they need and get what we need. But my truck ain’t cleared to go on the toll road to get all the way inside the city.” He eyed me. “You gotta stick close to me at the market. Other drivers’ll sell anything they get their hands on—including women.”

Katie shifted, feeling a spring press against the back of her thigh from the worn seat. “How are you going to get me into the city?”

“Your sponsor family is gonna meet us there at the market. They’re cleared to go in.”

Katie gulped for air, imagining a world where every face belonged to a stranger.

Tucker nudged her with his elbow. “Now I come here every first Saturday,” he said. “I know you’ll be busy with school and all that and maybe you can’t get over to the market, but if you can, you get a letter to my truck and that way we’ll all know how you’re doing.”

Katie swallowed, suddenly envisioning every word she wrote being read at the village church service. Anything bad would make Mallory worry. Anything good would make Allison cry.

“I’ll try,” she said.

She turned her eyes away before he could see her pooling tears. They blurred the limbs of the live oaks that swept in gnarled loops only inches off the ground. Brush grew between them, creating a thick carpet of foliage that barred an average walker from the woods.

The tires spat the last of the rocks behind them as the wheels hit paved road. Katie worked a foot beneath her to see better out of the windshield as a dark, smooth road stretched ahead like a wide, fresh ribbon. The truck quieted, even though the wind still blew through the windows. Sunlight glinted off the river, glimmering between the thick trunks of the trees before it wound away from them again. That was one comfort. The river, at least, would go with her, or rather leave her, for it flowed from the city to the village.

“Too bad the river flows downstream and not up,” she said. “Y’all could just drop a note in a bottle.”

“Ah, you got a better chance of somebody finding a note you send to us, than one coming to you, anyway. You’re gonna be too busy to fish, and those town people don’t wash their clothes in the river.”

She blinked. “They don’t wash their clothes?”

“They do, just not in the river. They got machines to wash for them. And they don’t have to crank them to make them run, neither.”

“How do they run?”

“With electricity. They got electricity there, just like our folks did before the Blackout.”

“Huh.” She rapped a knuckle against the worn leather that once covered the door. “I don’t know if Dad would have let me go if he knew there would be electricity.”

“He’d be a fool not to. Somebody gotta get out of our village.” He turned off the road onto a large stretch of cleared field where people had set up tables and opened the back of trucks. “Did you remember to wash behind your ears?”

“Funny,” Katie threw back, and her driver just grinned.

The two sponsors stood out, standing in a sea of vendors, dressed like they’d intended to show up for Mallory’s wedding rather than picking up a new student at a market. The man stood with his hands in the pockets of a traditional suit, gray with silver stripes running down the pattern. A blue tie squeezed his throat, also accentuated with silver lines, only now they were vertical. Even his hair seemed in on the act, dark in the middle, but framed with silver that grew near his temples and highlighted the path over his ears. He peered at Katie from behind two circles of glass held by a silver wire that pinched his nose. His mouth turned downward, Blackwell-style, and Katie felt a twinge of fear as she stepped onto the grass crushed by a dozen tires.

But the woman glowed. Her hair was the same gold as Katie’s but cut short and curled against her head. Her blue eyes were framed with dark lashes, standing out even from several paces. She wore a tailored bodice of pale pink, matching a pleated skirt that rippled softly with each movement. She balanced in high heels, putting one foot in front of the other like she was balancing on a fence post. She was even more elegant than Mrs. Blackwell.

Katie instinctively pulled her shoulders back with movements she’d practiced in front of the mirror since she was six and her mother had giggled at her efforts.

“Katie!”

She watched, enchanted as the woman descended with a smile, never slowing as she drew near. Her arms expanded, wrapping around Katie like it was a reunion instead of a meeting. She smelled like flowers and sugar.

Senses overwhelmed, Katie choked again, for something in the hug was genuine and made her miss her mother. And just as suddenly, she was pushed away. The woman studied her, saying, “We are so glad to have you, aren’t we Rich?”

The man tore his eyes from inspecting the dent in Tucker’s truck, “Hmm? Oh. Yes.”

“I am Mrs. Alcott. This is my husband, Richard. You can call him Mr. Alcott. We’ve already set up a room all to yourself at our home. You’re going to just love it.” Mrs. Alcott tugged gently on Katie’s hand, guiding her toward the distant line of cars. “All the things in the room are new. We bought them just for you, though I had to guess the size for the clothes. If they don’t fit, we can always exchange them.”

Katie glanced back, suddenly realizing she hadn’t said goodbye to Tucker, but he was already twenty feet behind them. She turned back to Mrs. Alcott, but before she could ask to run back, the woman asked her own question.

“Have you ever slept on FreeFibre sheets?” Mrs. Alcott asked. “No? Oh, you will love them! We just got a set for ourselves, and they are the softest things you can imagine, just like butter!”

Sleeping in butter sounded slimy. Katie blinked, half turned back to the men, but they too were breaking apart.

Mr. Tucker waved. Then he put his hand to his mouth and shouted, “Don’t forget, the first Saturday!”

Katie waved back and as her arm fell, Mrs. Alcott swept it against her side, cradling her as they walked.

“You’re very thin,” the woman said. “You must be hungry. Rich tells me people from the woods are always hungry. But just hang on a little bit longer. We have a treat for you tonight. We’re having lobster. I don’t suppose you’ve ever had it. It grows in the water, Rich says. Did you know there are places in the world where there’s nothing except water for as far as you can see? Some days when the sky and water are all blue or all gray, you can’t even tell one from the other. It’s just one big block of colorful nothingness. I’ve seen it. Rich and I travel a lot.”

The woman’s words piled in Katie’s head, creating disjointed pictures, but Mr. Alcott did nothing to aid when he caught up, carrying the crate with Katie’s clothing. As the trio passed through the line of tables, items were thrust at them from every side. Some traders fell into step behind them, clamoring until Mr. Alcott shouted them away. “No, no, we’re not here to buy today.”

Katie hugged Clark’s gift against her chest, shielding herself from the glances of any merchants who might want to capture and sell her.

“Want me to hold your package?” Mrs. Alcott asked.

“No, thanks. I’ll keep it with me.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Clark gave it to me just before I left.”

“Clark?” The woman smiled and elbowed her. “Is that a boyfriend?”

“No.” Katie winced. “We’re just friends.”

“I see,” the woman said.

A few persistent hopefuls followed all the way down the row of vehicles until they reached a black, smoothly curved car.

Mr. Alcott opened the door, shoved the crate across the seat, grabbed Katie’s arm to hurry her in, and nearly slammed the door on her foot. Mrs. Alcott slid into her seat, and he locked the doors while he rounded the hood.

A merchant yanked on Katie’s door. “I have a lovely necklace for you, sweetheart!”

 She stared through the tinted window, wondering if this was how Clark felt every day.

“Leave us alone!” Mr. Alcott roared.

The man stepped back with a surprised glance, as Mr. Alcott unlocked the driver’s door by key and slid inside. He let out a harsh breath and glared at his wife. “Told you it was a bad idea to pick her up here.”

“Where else could we have picked her up?” Mrs. Alcott asked.

“Her village.”

“Then we would have had three times this rabble! Besides, last time I went there, the water made me sick, remember?”

Katie shifted to try to see more of the woman’s face. “You’ve been to my village?”

“Only once. A few months ago,” she said. “We saw you. From a distance.”

Mr. Alcott started the car and revved the engine. He inched the vehicle forward and the crowd scrambled like oil away from a drop of water, but Katie didn’t breathe better until they had gone a mile down the road and turned a bend. Then the car stopped again.

Mrs. Alcott turned in her seat, her voice dropping into a confiding tone. “We do have one little problem, Katie. You’re not vaccinated, and they won’t let you into the city without one. Now, we can get it done, but not today. So—just for today—you’re going to have to hide in the car. Once we get you across safely, you can stay at our house, and we’ll take you tomorrow to get everything all set up for school.”

Katie hugged Clark’s package closer to her chest, eying the floorboard with trepidation. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Only if you’re caught,” Mrs. Alcott smiled. “It’s not a big deal. The medical center is closed today. We won’t be taking you to any of the stores, just straight to our home, so it really isn’t a problem. They just don’t need to know there are three people in the car, instead of two when we go through the checkpoint. We’ll put you on the floorboard and cover you with the packages, and we’ll be good to go.”

Katie glanced back down the deserted road. She swallowed. “I guess that would be all right.”

 Already two seats were filled with colorful paper bags, allowing only a small gap. Katie crawled into it and pulled her legs to her chest. The bags Mrs. Alcott covered her with felt like they were each filled with only one light thing.

Good thing they’d chosen her for the scholarship. There was no way that Clark could have fit into this spot. She waited until the two doors in front had shut again and the car began to jostle its way over the uneven ground before she asked, “What does vaccinated mean?”

“Inoculated,” Mr. Alcott answered, “so, you don’t get sick while you’re here or spread your sicknesses to us.”

“Like the sickness in the river water?” she asked.

“Oh, it can be in the water, in air, anywhere,” Mrs. Alcott said. “Sometimes it just doesn’t work well when country and city people mix. But they told us you were healthy, and you appear to be so, so we should have nothing to worry about.”

“Who told you I was healthy?” Katie asked.

“The scholarship people.”

“How could they know?”

“I suppose they asked your local doctor.”

Katie frowned. “Our local doctor died. Clark is the doctor. Nobody asked him. He would have told me. I think.”

Katie shifted, trying to relieve the shoulder she was lying on, wondering what inoculation meant. She may find lots of words here she didn’t know. She didn’t know there was anything in the world that could keep one from getting sick. What could such a thing do for her town?

She could bring an inoculator—or whatever it was—to Clark. He could be the most successful doctor they’d ever had. Perhaps then his family would be properly proud. Perhaps if she did return to the village dressing and walking as elegantly as Mrs. Alcott, maybe the Blackwell’s wouldn’t shun her.

 

Novella: Chapter Two - The Letter

Chapter Three

 

Katie almost wished there wasn’t a scholarship for, as exciting as it was that a villager—any villager—would see or do what none of them had seen or done before, the anticipation had quickly turned from excitement to agony. The expected letter had infiltrated her ability to plan for her future or even chat normally with her friends. It was hard to enjoy their last school day when every second nudged them all closer to the moment when someone’s life would change forever, and the others would have their fates sealed.

Allison was right. They would have to make a concerted effort to remain friends, and Katie resolved that she would keep herself from resenting either Clark or Allison, no matter how many years she was forced to spend earning her keep on a pig farm and dependent on the good will and income of her brother-in-law.

School let out with a final hug from the teacher. No one had seen hide nor hair of Tucker and his rusted truck. Katie began to hope his delay would be extensive and the letter he carried wouldn’t come until after the wedding.

She stepped off the rotted wooden sidewalk and walked on the packed road instead, setting her mind on the next task: change into her new dress and meet Mallory in the town square for one final hug before she lost her sister to the arms of a man.

“Katie!” Clark jogged alongside his horse to catch up to her. But once he did, he didn’t say anything, just kept opening his mouth, then catching each word before it actually left. She waited for him to gather his thoughts and was finally rewarded with a rushed, “If I can’t get you to the city... if I even get there... will you wait for me?”

Katie stopped walking, so stunned she could only manage to blink.

“We could get married,” Clark rephrased. “If we both decided to wait.”

“Until you get back?” Katie asked.

He winced. “Maybe longer. We’d have to wait until my dad died.”

“Your dad?” Katie sputtered. “That could be forty years from now.”

“Probably more like ten or... maybe twenty but...” Clark tapered off. “But I’ll wait if you will.”

“Why couldn’t we just get married?” Katie asked.

Clark stuck his hands into his pockets. “It’s just... he said if I married you, he’d write me out of the will. But maybe we could... win him over. Or if I went to the city, maybe I could get wealthy enough on my own.”

The world reeled and Katie swayed with it, “I never liked you because of your wealth, Clark. But if it means that much to you, you should probably pick someone else.”

His face slacked, paled, “Katie, it’s not that simple.”

“Just enjoy your party tonight,” she said. “We’ll have at least two years to figure out our futures.”

And fortunes.

She tucked her face and walked away, gripping her skirt to keep her fingers from trembling as her mind frantically sorted through the onslaught of emotions and thoughts, finally consolidating into an intense throb of regret.

She shoved the door to Katherine’s seamstress shop harder than necessary and blew in like a northern wind. Folded squares of material made from the cotton from her own farm lined a long wooden table near the window. Old drawers from the ancient printer presses held salvaged buttons, rolled zippers, and even a few old rhinestones that had been pulled off of tattered clothes before they were turned into rags.

Katherine was kneeling in front of Ms. Bonnie Blackwell, pinning the material where it would turn just above the stout woman’s ankles. The seamstress sent Katie a quick smile that only lifted the corners of her mouth because the rest of her lips were pinching straight pins.

“Katie!” Bonnie called before Katie could escape behind a shelf. “Did Tucker bring the letter yet?”

“Not yet,” Katie said.

The woman snorted. “He’s probably drinking before he comes. I tell you, it’s a wonder that man manages to keep his truck on the road.”

“Tucker’s truck is like his firstborn,” Katie said. “I’ve never seen him drink before he drives it.”

“I’ve never seen him do anything besides drink,” the woman counteracted. She moved to the counter, pulling her hem from Katherine’s fingers, and leaving the young woman to jab the air. “I have a gift for you sister. Please be sure and give it to her with my good wishes. I don’t expect I’ll be able to attend the wedding myself, but I want her to know that I am no wise disapproving of her marriage and I’m very happy for her.”

The box was round, likely containing one of Bonnie’s creations, for the woman passed her ample free time by elaborately decorating hats and had often exclaimed in horror over the tanned skin of the common girls. But out of all the Blackwell women, she was the only one who attempted to treat them as human beings.

“I will give it to her, thank you,” Katie said.

“I’ll make one for you too,” Bonnie said, “when you get married. I happen to know that someone has been waiting for you to finish school. Now that your time will be freed up for homemaking, I wouldn’t be shocked if he finally got around to speaking up.”

Katie recoiled slightly, eyeing the woman, wondering if she was approving or fishing. “And who would that be?”

“Have you ever noticed the way that Sam watches you?”

“Sam?”

The woman nodded, almost sympathetically. “Absolutely. And he would be a good match for you. I know he’s terribly shy, but I’m sure once you grew comfortable with each other he would open up and talk more.”

“Sam’s never said more than three words to me.”

“Well,” the woman’s head tipped. “Perhaps he would if you stopped standing so close to Clark.”

Katherine stood, smoothing the wrinkles out of her own tailored pants. “I’m finished with the measurements, Ms. Blackwell. You can change out of the gown now.”

“Well, that was quick and painless, wasn’t it?” Ms. Blackwell flashed them both a jovial smile and moved to the back room.

Katie closed her eyes, then forced them open to raise her eyebrows toward Katherine. “Thank you.”

Katherine grimaced. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m awfully sorry. I stayed up until my candle burned out but... I don’t have your dress finished.”

“The wedding is in an hour,” Katie sputtered.

“I know. I’ve stayed up every evening working later than I normally do, but Georgia Blackwell needed to let out her dress, and Karina ordered an entirely new one. There’s some sort of Blackwell party going on tonight.”

“Well, I guess it’s good for business,” Katie managed.

Katherine shook her head in an apology, “I’m really sorry, Katie. I know I had your order first, but you know how it is. I have your bodice finished and the skirt is basted on, but I didn’t get time to attach it properly and the hem’s not finished. I can finish it tonight though, I swear, and you can at least have it tomorrow... if you win.”

“I doubt I’ll win.” Katie said. “It’s all right though. It’s Mallory’s wedding anyway. I’ll just wear this, and you can finish the dress this week after you get some sleep.”

She eyed her friend hard, and Katherine smiled, whispering, “Thank you.”

Katie dropped her voice to a mimicking whisper. “Now, I’m going to run before Ms. Blackwell comes back.”

Katherine widened her eyes in agreement and mouthed, “Sam??”

The girls wrinkled their noses at the very idea.

Katie hurried from the shop, keenly aware of every faint stain in her dress. It took three swallows to banish the disappointment and she rounded the corner faster than usual, smacking straight into a man.

She glimpsed the thick gray material of a suit, but when she lifted her head, she was greeted with a familiar set of long nostrils. She recognized the sand-colored hair, squinty eyes, and crooked smile but she still gaped. “Jeremy! I almost didn’t recognize you without your beard.”

Jeremy’s dimples sunk his cheeks as he offered a grimacing smile. “Yeah. I’d thought I’d... clean up for Malory so I got my hair cut and...” He swallowed so hard she saw a bit of his Adam’s apple. “I didn’t do myself any favors, did I?”

He certainly had not.

Without the beard, Jeremy’s face had transformed into a baby-faced oval that hung suspended under the protruded brow bones. His hair was neatly trimmed and looked well-kept, but the shorter length only accentuated his protruding ears. The collar of his dress shirt had chaffed a red line into his neck. He was sweating profusely.

For the first time in her life, she couldn’t rouse a shred of dislike for the man.

“Well,” she stammered, then forced the strain from her voice, “it’s not that bad. It’s probably just that we’re not used to seeing you without a beard, so you just look different. And I know for a fact that Mallory always preferred the boys without the beards.”

The last line worked, and the wrinkles smoothed out of his forehead and even his shoulders relaxed. His mouth perked slightly, and she swore even his ears lifted. “I thought she did,” he said, sticking his hands into his pockets. “I - I remembered that. I was on my way to the square. Do you want to walk with me?”

“Sure,” Katie replied and resigned herself to his company.

“Did you hear about the scholarship yet?”

“Nope,” she answered.

“I didn’t think so,” he said. “I’ve been watching for Tucker’s truck all day, but I hadn’t seen it. I hope they pick you. You’re a smart girl. Can you imagine one of us just going out there? I don’t mean no respect to the Blackwells, but I’d love to see their faces if somebody else got picked for once.”

He grinned, and she felt the smallest smile rise. Revenge on the Blackwells would taste sweeter if her best friend wasn’t one of them. She almost asked Jeremy if he could imagine the Blackwells’ faces of one of them picked her for a wife, but she pressed her lips together. Clark had picked her and that made her heart warm, but he’d also chosen his inherited wealth over her and that made the feeling burn away. She wasn’t sure if she was flattered, sentimental, or angry. Nor was she sure that Jeremey’s generosity would accommodate a ten-year secret engagement.

“Ms. Blackwell sent Mallory a hat,” she said instead and lifted the box. “Hope you’re prepared for frills and dried flowers.”

He took the box from her without asking if she’d like him to carry it. His eyes sparkled. “Oh, I don’t mind if Mallory likes it. There’s not many things in my house nice to look at, but I guess lots of frills may be coming in after you ladies get at it.”

Katie laughed. “We’ve already packed the curtains.”

She should thank him. It was the perfect moment to acknowledge that she was aware of the sacrifice he and Mallory were making, giving up their short time to enjoy each other’s company without anyone else in the house before kids were added to the mix. But she couldn’t because it was too awkward. After all, she wouldn’t be impeding on Jeremey’s life if he hadn’t first inserted himself into hers.

But he saw Malory all the way from across the square and the woman turned like she’d sensed his arrival. The two smiled at each other and Katie finally accepted that there was no way either of them were going to change their mind.

Katie kept busy, helping unload the chairs the guests had loaded onto the wagon as it passed their house. Even the Blackwells showed up, since Tucker still hadn’t brought the letter that would assure in Clark’s party. Clark didn’t come himself until five minutes before the ceremony started and Katie stood alone and disappointed until Allison stepped beside her.

Her friend took both of her hands, tilting her head. “You look so sad.”

The comment almost broke her, and Katie pulled her friend in for a hug, swallowing, “Will you stay with me at my house tonight?”

“Sure,” Allison replied, then pulled back. “What happened to your dress?”

Katie huffed a laugh because no one else had even noticed. “The Blackwells.”

“No.” Allison offered the appropriate gasp, then glanced down at her own attire. “Do you... want wear mine?”

“No, it’s okay,” Katie said. “Trust me, the dress is the least of the drama.”

“Oh you must share,” Allison said, but the ceremony began before Katie could.

Jeremy’s grin lifted his ears, the appendages that seemed to have a life of their own and regularly rose and fell as he captured Mallory with promises of provision. His suit—which looked suspiciously like one of Clark’s—hung stiffly, shifting in various directions as he pulled first at the collar, then at the sleeves where the white undershirt peeked a fourth of an inch from beneath his coat.

 Mallory, on the other hand, had transformed from a plain woman with a focused expression into a girl that could have captured even a Blackwell's attention had she not just signed her availability away. Her light brown hair wrapped her head in a crown braid, coiling into rows of plated strands that secured sprigs of goldenrod. The wedding dress had been altered, yet again, to fit Malory’s slim waist with no need for a colorful back to expand the bosom as Lori had used when she'd worn the dress last month or a second skirt worn beneath to extend the hem as Jane had improvised for her wedding.

Katie swallowed, doubting the dress could ever be hemmed and darted enough to fit her own tiny frame. She'd stopped growing when she was fourteen, her height settling a full inch under five feet, and she could see the outline of her ribs even without sucking in her stomach. She had managed a few slight curves that showed the occasional visitor that she was not actually a child, but she was far from curvaceous. She wondered if the libraries in the city offered more than one choice of wedding gown.

The clouds broke apart as Jeremy slipped his grandmother’s ring onto Mallory's finger like it had been waiting for that very moment. Katie’s stomach flipped again, but looking at Mallory's face helped, because she was beginning to feel like maybe—for whatever reason—Mallory really did want to marry Jeremy. Katie caught a tiny flicker of happiness and fanned the feeling for all it was worth. She even managed to cheer with Allison when the couple kissed.

The cake was cut, the pieces devoured. The opening stanza of a violin ushered in the first dance between husband and wife. Everyone else began their customary creeping: young boys crept back to the cake table to pick up any stray crumbs, older boys edged closer to the girls they were thinking about asking for the next dance, and few adults snuck away toward home.

Katie glanced toward Clark, but he had planted himself in the shadows of the cedar tree, studying his wine glass, and successfully avoiding all inviting eyes. Dancing with a Blackwell man transformed you, according to your rank, into either a starlet or a slut.

She knew because she'd danced with Clark two years ago, just once. She'd gone to sleep with stars in her eyes and had woken to a year of canceled invitations, stony silences on one side and whispered accusations of gold-digging on the other. Only Allison had remained loyal, ready to shove Katie toward Clark or drag her away at Katie's command. Most often it had been away, for though Clark lived on the family fringe, at the end of the day he was still a Blackwell.

“Even if he doesn’t ask you,” Allison’s voice floated into her ear, “he’s thinking about it.”

“He won’t ask,” Katie said. “It’s all right. I’d rather he didn’t.”

Allison threw her a skeptical glance.

“I would!” she defended. “School is over. It’s... everything’s over.”

“You don’t know that.”

Over the rapid notes of Gabe's violin, a distant drone transformed into a rattle engine. Tucker and his truck rolled onto the grass, stopping inches from the sawhorses and sheets of wood that had been lined up for tables.

“It will be,” Katie answered.

Allison froze, then turned almost a pitying glance toward her. “We’ll still be friends, no matter what.”

The crowd nearest the truck flowed toward it, each mind suddenly turned toward treasure from the city: duct tape, glass jars, and shoes - especially shoes.

"Now y'all stand back!" Mr. Tucker flapped his arms like he was surrounded by chickens as he clambered out of the cab. "Everybody will get their stuff before you go home, don't worry. You don't want to be holding it all night, do ya?"

He spoke fast, his pitch increasing with his speed, and he clutched three envelopes. Katie froze. She cast a worried look toward the bride, but Mallory only lifted her eyebrows, feigning the excited belief that Katie was still in the running.

Jeremy's ears bounced as he called out, "‘Fess up, Tucker! Did you peek?"

Tucker stopped, drew his hand to press the envelopes against his chest and declared, "Tucker does not peek!"

He spoke the truth, for the envelopes he delivered to Allison and Katie were still sealed, but he winked toward Katie, even as he spoke to both. "Good luck, girls."

Allison clutched her envelope, managing a flickering smile. Katie suddenly wished she had danced with Clark because he paled so much it looked like someone might need to catch him if he passed out. But he recovered himself with a breath, took his own envelope as he thanked Tucker and bore the attention of the majority of spectators. His fingers trembled as he broke the seal, face whitened as his eyes dropped to the bottom of the letter. His expression remained neutral, but he swallowed and shut the paper, announcing in a tone so steady it took people a moment to register his words. “I didn’t get in.”

Allison stared, then clawed open her envelope. Katie slipped her fingers beneath her own seal pulling the folded paper out, noting with excitement that one side was completely blank with ample room for writing.

“I didn’t either,” Allison’s voice broke.

Katie glanced to the crestfallen face next to her. For two months the unspoken question of who would go had hung over the group. It had never occurred to any of them that the winner could be another young person from a different village and none of them would go.

Their eyes met, then turned simultaneously toward Katie’s letter.

Congratulations.

Katie saw only the first word before Allison grabbed her arm.

“Katie, you got it!” Allison’s squeal buzzed her ear. “Katie got it! Katie’s going!”

Her excitement hit the stunned crowd like a marble, knocking a chain of reactions.

Katie’s mouth fell, the only part of her body that could move until her friend crushed her in a hug. “Congratulations, Katie,” Allison’s excitement drained out in a whisper.

Katie held her friend, feeling the girl’s arms tremble. Every eye was on her, and she shrank back from the force of the stares, glancing to the kindest of the faces. Several people cheered. A few Blackwells blinked, unsure how to react to the rejection of one of their own, though Clark’s father’s face reflected only relief of the removal of a current, growing problem.

Tucker clapped so hard that dust rose from his oversized gloves. Mallory covered her mouth, but a smile lurked behind it. Her new husband grinned outright. Clark’s face remained masked, but he managed to nod with approval when Katie’s eyes met his.

Allison pulled back, managed one last smile, then burst into tears.

Novella: Chapter One - The Village

Intro

(In case you missed it last week.)

Her steps betrayed her with a sucking noise as she peeled her sweaty heels from the white stone tile. The LED lights of the clock read 11:29 AM. Her eyes darted toward the couch, glimpsed the man’s chest rising and falling with the slow breath of sleep, then returned to the steel square at the bottom of the front door. 

Her fingers tightened against the folded square of paper. She winced as it crinkled. Twelve steps would carry her to the delivery door, their sound covered by the mechanical grind of the gears as the door turned into a shelf and lowered with the bag of groceries. It would deposit them with one parallel turn and push the bag forward as the shelf realigned with the door, sealing the house for another week. 

She rehearsed the process as she stepped through the arched entryway, expecting a two second window when she could drop the message onto the moving shelf without it sliding into the grocery sack. Two seconds to tell a stranger that she was here. Two seconds to escape to freedom. And if she failed . . .

Chapter OneThe Village

Out of all the smell she could resent, it was unfortunate that it had turned out to be bacon. Katie frowned as her stomach betrayed her for the third time in five minutes, first quivering, then twisting her gut like a raccoon destroying a trap. She pulled her best dress from the dim closet. Even yesterday’s efforts of washing, ironing, and trimming the loose threads had only managed to make the gown presentable. The vibrant purple flowers she’d embroidered around the neckline had only accentuated their dingy white backdrop.

She avoided the magnified mirror that sat on her dresser as she stepped into the dress and wrestled with the back buttons. She unbraided her hair, running the comb through its long, light waves, deciding to wear it down and leave behind her red ribbon so it didn’t draw attention.

Today was Mallory’s day to shine.

She pulled in another steadying breath and hung up her night dress, tugging the hem so it would hang straight. Practiced a smile. Smoothed her sheets and the quilt made from patches from her family’s cast-off clothing. Her favorite squares were from her grandparents’ clothing from before the great blackout. Those patches were smooth and soft, created from a material that wasn’t from nature. Polyester, her grandmother had called it, but as it had been made in a lab and not grown from the ground, nobody wore it these days or even quite remembered how it had been made.

Summoning every bit of self-control, Katie felt her way along the dim hall down the stairs where her sister stooped over the coals she’d scraped onto the hearth, flipping two thick slabs of bacon that sizzled in the cast iron grill.

Katie’s stomach whined again, and she pressed her hand against the traitor. She strode past the table and snatched the basket from the counter, speaking in a tight, high pitch. “Morning, Mal. I’ll get the eggs.”

“I already got them.” Mallory straightened quickly. “I want to talk to you, before Clark gets here.”

Katie chewed her lip, then forced her face into something she hoped looked neutral. “About what?”

“I know today is hard for you,” Mallory said, “for . . . lots of reasons. And I’m sorry we can’t keep the farm. I really am. But me and Jeremy talked it over . . .”

Katie’s heart sped, fanning the spark of hope that the wedding was off.

  Mallory’s voice blurred as her mind supplied a host of potential turn of events.

“ . . . we really won’t mind. You can stay here until it sells if you want, but then you’re welcome to come to our farm. If the scholarship doesn’t work out, of course.”

Pressure expanded like hot air, filling her chest and tightening her throat, and she hated her sister for summoning the tears Katie had banished.

“Honey.” Mallory’s shoulders melted, and she took two steps toward Katie.

Katie turned away. Grabbed the back of her father’s chair. “Do you really want to marry him? I mean . . . you’re only 21.”

“Katie, he’s a good man.”

“I know, but—” Katie cut herself off, feeling the familiar debate between being kind and being truthful. She chose her words carefully, letting them out in a deliberate slowness. “Sometimes I feel like you’re just doing this because we can’t afford to stay here.”

“We can’t.”

“If we have to sell, we could take the money and buy a smaller place,” Katie offered, “or even go somewhere else where we’d have more . . . options.”

  Mallory blinked, her face pinching like it always did when Katie was trying to explain the laws of thermodynamics or how letters could stand in as placeholders for unknown numbers in a math problem.

“Don’t marry him if you don’t want to,” Katie stated.

  Mallory’s mouth moved as she took a deep breath like she was trying to simplify her own thoughts. “Katie. . .”

The bacon popped from the pan, burning dark against the edges. Mallory stooped to retrieve it, scooping both pieces onto a plate. She stood, holding the glistening slabs her fiancé had brought as a bribery.

“I want to marry him,” Mallory said.

“Why?” The one question Katie had forbidden herself to ask, burst out in a wail.

“Because he’s kind and . . . respected . . .”   Mallory set the plate onto the table and wiped her palms against her apron. “He’s well established, and he’s willing to let you come too. And . . . he makes me happy.”

Why? She almost asked the question again, dumbfounded at the power the man somehow wielded over her sister. Mallory had always kept near the wall and lots of girls outshone her, but she was sweet and talented and had access to plenty of other skilled men who could put a solid roof over her head and would look far better as they did it.

Katie turned away, pulling two eggs of the four eggs from their basket. She cradled them as she crossed to the fireplace, avoiding Mallory’s eyes. Sighing, she broke them, dropping the yokes into the bacon grease.

  Mallory took a breath, then spoke from behind her. “Please, try to like Jeremy. For my sake.”

“I am trying,” Katie said quickly. “I just . . . I don’t see what you see.”

“You don’t have to. But for the next few years, he’s going to be taking care of us, so . . .” She sighed. “Someday you’ll understand. For now, all I want you to know is that we’re not going to leave you to fend for yourself.”

Clark’s boots vibrated the floorboards as he climbed the porch steps, calling through the screen door, “Hello!”

“Good morning, Clark,” Mallory said, “Have you eaten today?”

“I have, thank you,” Clark answered as he always did, though Katie suspected it was actually truth.

Which was good because they’d only cooked two pieces of bacon, and no one had bothered to make a fresh loaf of bread because they wouldn’t be here by the end of the week anyway.

Katie sighed, fishing the eggs out of the grease as Clark scraped his boots on the steps and pulled off his cap, before stepping gingerly just inside the door. Katie cut a thick chunk from the heel of the loaf, broke the piece in two and layered the strip of bacon onto the bread, ignoring her egg. She walked toward the door, but Clark remained stationed.

His thumb fidgeted with the leather strap on his book bag, his only giveaway as he calmly addressed Mallory. “I want to be at your wedding tonight, and I hope I am. But if I have to skip, I want you to know it’s not my choice.”

“It’s all right, Clark,” Mallory said. “This is a big day for you, and Katie too. A second celebration would make ours even better.”

Clark sucked in such a deep breath that he almost looked like a fish. He nodded, then ran his fingers through his hair, trying to press down the thick dark strands that never quite stayed where they should. “It’s just. . .” His eyes flickered miserably to Katie. “My dad already planned . . . I tried to talk him out of it. I mean, I may . . . I may not even get it. And I told him that, so I don’t know if he’s actually invited anyone, but I think he has, and—”

Katie stopped her greasy fingers just before she clutched her dress. “Wait.” She didn’t think her heart could sink any lower but found now that it was more than capable. “You’re not going to be at the wedding?”

“I hope so,” Clark moaned. “I don’t want a party. Even if I do win the scholarship.”

Katie grinned. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to win.”

“Yeah but . . .” Misery broke through his discomfort. His shoulders sloped until he looked like a lost young boy dressed up in a white shirt with starched cuffs that never quite seemed to elevate him to his proper social status as a member of the Blackwell family. “What if I don’t?”

Katie shrugged. “Then the whole town will be at Mallory’s wedding, and anyone your father did invite will still have a good time.”

“And if you do,” Mallory added, “it will be okay. Enjoy your party. Jeremy and I would rather have had a smaller wedding anyway and just invited a couple of people. The more people at your party, the less we’ll have to host at ours.”

The words washed the tension out of the young man’s body. He flipped the cap back onto his head and nodded. “I guess we’ll see.”

Still summoning both breath and enough poise to speak, Katie asked, “Ready?”

Clark eyed her gown, hesitating. “It’s awful muddy out there.”

“I’m picking up a dress from Debby,” she said. “I’ll be careful.”

Clark’s eyebrows traveled a fraction before he tore his gaze from her uneaten sandwich to Mallory who gripped the back of a chair. His mouth opened, and Katie quickly took a bite, so her mouth was too full to answer. Clark blinked and opened the screen door. “Let’s go.”

Katie flashed Mallory a close-lipped smile and snatched the tail of her father’s belt that kept her books in a neat, tight stack. It would be completely empty on her way home, for all books must be relinquished on the final day of school. She ate as quickly as she could, following Clark onto the porch.

 Clark glanced down, frowning at the pots that lined the path, half filled with rainwater. He said nothing until they reached the road where the black horse stood, treating the dropped rein like a staked rope. Clark pulled the cow horn from his belt and offered it to her.

“It’s been raining,” Katie said. “You can keep your water.”

“I can get more when I go home,” Clark said. “It’s not raining that much. Besides.” He sighed. “My father charges your family twice as much as anyone else in town for the well water. So, technically we owe it to you.”

Katie swallowed, but stuffed the last bite into her mouth and accepted the cow horn. “What do they charge Jeremy? Your folks going to raise his price when he marries my sister?”

“They’d better not.” Clark flung himself across the horse’s bare back, then reached down to hoist her up, then grinned. “Although Dad was pretty mad when Jeremy refused him a side of bacon and then gave it to your sister.”

“Oh?” Katie smirked. “That almost makes me want to eat it.”

She took his hand, swinging up behind him, relaxing her legs so she didn't give the animal mixed signals. The horse's hooves fell into a familiar rhythm on the packed road, the clops muffled against packed dirt, occasionally broken by the grind of an asphalt rock.

A light rain wet her face, and she frowned again at the cotton drooping at the edges of the road. No reason to pick the excess. This year, it wasn’t the land that had dried up: it was the buyers. She and Mallory had filled their own shelves with bags, sold what they could to the weaver, and left the rest to rot.

Ever since their parents died, the sisters had lived near the poverty line. This year, they’d plunged like Alice down the rabbit hole, falling so far, they’d yet to hit bottom. But the scholarship danced at the back of her mind.

She hugged Clark’s waist wishing that she had lied on her application. Allison had, creating a vivid picture of her desire to pursue a college education in the big city so she could return to her remote town and teach her fellow farmers the latest agricultural techniques for social development—even though everybody knew Allison was positioned to take over the school for Mrs. Nancy within the next two years.

Clark's essay read more truthfully that he was already apprenticing as a doctor and wished to advance his skills as a surgeon because the death of Dr. McConley had forced the entire village to treat wounds by reaching for their sewing kits and hoping for the best.

But Katie had stated only the stark truth: her parents were dead, her sister wished to get married, her current livelihood was unsustainable, and she was desperate to experience the world beyond her neighbors. But selfishness didn't win scholarships.

Pangs of regret surged up her body, and she tightened her arms against Clark's torso. There was the other loss for her today: whether Clark or Allison won the coveted scholarship, one of them would be leaving tomorrow to live in the big city. And without the excuse of school, she and Clark were going to have a hard time orbiting around each other.

“I don’t know that they’ll pick me,” Clark said. “They might pick you.”

“They’re not going to pick me,” Katie said. “Allison, maybe, but not me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re both better students than me.”

“Of course we are,” Clark said. She swallowed, but he turned his face to glance back at her, adding, “We have candles.”

“I have candles!”

“You study with bacon grease spooned into an orange peel.”

“It works . . . ish.”

He huffed a short laugh. “Ish. I’m just saying I don’t think you’re really third in the class as far as brains go.” He picked at the fraying leather. “Besides, we don’t even know that they’ll choose on school performance. Maybe they’ll base it on family background. Your grandfather was from the city, wasn’t he? Maybe you could find some relatives still there. I mean . . . if you don’t want to stay with your sister.”

“I do want to stay with my sister. It’s her husband I’m not sure about.”

“Why don’t you like Jeremy?”

“His eyes are too small.”

“He can’t help that.”

“Ears are too big.”

“Can’t help that either.”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I just don’t like him.”

“Because he’s stealing your sister?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, we all got to get married sooner or later.”

“Do we?”

“Don’t you want to?” Clark asked.

Her face heated but she answered quickly, “Says the man with unlimited options.”

Clark snorted. “Trust me, my options are extremely limited.”

He turned to the left of the forked road and the horse’s ears flickered toward the girl who waited near the gate. The skirt of her gray dress flapped loosely as she used one foot to rub the back of the sock that peeked from her cracked shoes. Allison's face mirrored Katie’s gloom as she sent a small smile. Strands of red hair escaped the braid she'd used to capture her wiry curls.

Clark swung down from his perch, handing the reins to Katie before he laced his fingers to offer Allison a step. But Allison ignored the gesture, instead peering up at Katie.

"I didn't sleep at all last night," she said. "Let's make a promise that no matter who gets the scholarship, we're all still going to be friends. We'll always be friends."

Katie blinked as logic broke up the sentimentality. "Whoever gets the scholarship won't even be here. I mean, we won't be enemies, but we're not exactly going to be talking."

"In our hearts," Allison amended. "Besides, I'm coming back—I mean, if I get it. You guys are too . . . " Her eyes flickered to Clark before her eyebrows tucked as she looked back to Katie. "Aren't you?"

Katie shrugged. She scooted forward on the horse to make room for her friend. "I'm not getting it," she admitted, “so it doesn’t matter. But I do want to go to the city even if I have to find another way."

“Waiting,” Clark interrupted still frozen in his stoop.

Allison sighed, stuck her crusted boot into his hands and swung herself behind Katie. Katie waited until Clark had brushed the mud from his fingers before offering him the reins. He grabbed them and tugged the horse forward.

"You can't just go to the city," Allison said quietly. "You have to have permission."

Or a scholarship.

“I know,” Katie felt the sob swelling in her throat and held her breath again. Clark's lips pressed together. Allison let out a sigh. But no one spoke again.

The schoolhouse was created by notched logs forming a square with six gaps for windows and a thatched roof. It had been constructed by one man who protested the closing of the state-run institutions following the Blackout.

His wife had served as the first teacher, offering traditional hours that had eventually shrunk into mornings of intensive study that released at noon so the young people could return to the tasks that ensured their community survived. One by one most of the youth had stopped attending, choosing to stay in their family’s fields or workshops. Even Allison was only here because she was apprenticed to become the next teacher.

Katie’s frowned dipped as she slid off the horse. After today, there would be nothing left here for her. She’d taken every lesson, had read every word in every book. The school may offer a plethora of nice memories, but she had drained all accounts from its modest knowledge bank. She clutched the last of her books as she stepped toward the building.

But Clark grabbed her hand, calling in a low tone, “Katie.”

Allison’s eyes darted toward them, then locked ahead on the school, and she marched out of earshot.

“If I get the scholarship,” Clark said, “maybe I could find a way to bring you to the city too.”

“How?”

“We could . . .” His eyes dropped. “I mean, I don’t know, but I’ll try.”

Katie opened her mouth to reply, but the wind blew a clump of hair into her mouth, carrying the smell of soapweed and grease from the tannery across the street. She tucked her hair back into the braid place as Clark glanced toward his uncle as the man stepped into the doorway. He dropped her hand and turned to grab his horse’s reins, snapped them against the log fence, sending them spiraling into a tight hold that allowed his horse only a modest graze.

Katie blinked, feeling hope spring like a seedling but squashed it like it a cutworm. She avoided his eyes, turning toward the schoolroom as she said, “Clark . . . please don’t make me promises you can’t keep.”

Author’s Note: (I feel like I’m writing FanFiction again.) So now is your chance to contribute to a real live book in progress. I would love to hear what you liked or didn’t like, what confused or intrigued you. No, I won’t give you future royalties, but if you ever wanted to contribute to a book in the making, here’s your big chance! Thanks for reading. My blog is one of my favorite parts of my job right now so I love to see the views and comments.

P.S: If Clark’s comment about the orange peel candle made you curious, you can explore that concept here. I’ve tried this and it actually works.

The Book Without a Name (And How It Was Created)

When stories pick you . . .

People often tell me their ideas for a novel, with the offer to split royalties if I'll write it for them. The truth is, I believe that if a story comes to you, it's meant for you to write. Even if I liked the idea, I have enough stories in me to write for well beyond the rest of my life, including the last of a trilogy and a seven-book series that are currently in the queue for publishing.

So it was a bit jarring when I decided to go to the apprenticeship program in hopes of improving my business and book launches and one of the requirements was that we were not allowed to work on any existing books, even outside of class. But we also had to write a novella while we were there: something that we had never written any extensive scenes for. I have written quite a lot of scenes as they come for future novels and with so many characters clamoring in my head, this proved to be quite a challenge.

How I write.

I understood the reasoning for it: the program had a set template for novels. Six specific types of characters had to be in there, and certain plot points must be met. Most of my novels wouldn't fit within those parameters. I've never been the type of author who chooses what my characters do. I'm more of a reporter running behind them, jotting down their lives as we go, then coming back later to package it in a neater way for public consumption.

Every novel comes to me a bit differently: with Between it was a sudden glimpse of a girl watching a boy sitting on the floor who was watching a younger boy who laying on the bed watching TV, and no one seemed to realize the other was there. Across the Distance began as an idea for a homemade movie with my best friend. Swing grew out of a series of ballroom dance classes.

So when we had to present not one, but three ideas of potential stories that we hadn't written or developed extensively, I was left with a challenge. Most of my stories exist in partially-written formats or extensive mental development. And my characters are like raising toddlers: they do what they want and trying to force them to follow directions often brings the story flow to a screeching halt. Most of the time when I get stuck in my novels, I can back it up to the moment I tried to manipulate the storyline or the timeline.

Herding Cats…

It's hard to explain this to non-writers but my characters feel like real people. Some, like Tehveor, require several drafts before they finally admit they've hidden half of their life from you and are really the leader of a secret sect working on restoring a forgotten kingdom. Some, like Cippy, just show up and start telling you their story without waiting for you to finish your current novel, and they know exactly what happened to them and how it all went down. If you don't recognize these names, it's because their stories are in the publishing/writing queue.

Three Ideas

I racked my brain and presented three story ideas I hoped I could fit into the constrained word count of a 30,000 novella:

1. A mash-up of fairytale characters in a reimagining story of Cinderella.

2. That random scene I had seen and jotted an opening for years ago about a girl following a couple into a house and their teenage son shaking his head at her before the doors shut and lock from the outside.

3. The dystopian tale of a woman from a post-blackout area of Texas whose fiancé takes a job in the city and doesn't return when he should. She follows to find him, accepts a job to support herself while she searches, and reunites with him . . . in the depths of modern-day slavery.

Our instructor was intrigued by all three but surprised me with the challenge: Write #2 but put it in the dystopian world of #3.

And that's how my novella happened. It was the first book I ever wrote that I finished without figuring out a title and therefore is simply called, "Novella." Overall, I was happy with the completed draft, though the ending veered from where I wanted it to go, and I had to wrap up the story at an earlier point and a different way than I had planned. Still, I thought with an added chapter at the beginning and reworked ending, I think the story works.

Why I decided to share it with you.

The manuscript’s just sitting on my drive, waiting indefinitely because I have ended my time at the school and turned back to the projects I was working on before I went. If I ever publish it as a book, it would be decades from now: so I have decided to share it here, rather than letting it languish. I will be lightly rewriting the existing text and perhaps inserting the chapters and story events I originally wanted to, but I'm going to release it chapter by chapter each week for you guys to enjoy while you wait for me to get Carter's story in book form.

Who knows? Perhaps you can help me find a suitable title for it.

So Dear Reader, I present to you the opening of the story I wrote last year. So far, only one person has ever read it, Alli, from the school who gave me some good feedback before I left. So thanks, Alli, for your help. Everyone else, enjoy and let me know if you'd like the idea of a weekly serial.

P. S. My novels normally carry the storyline in dialogue. I decided to keep that at minimum in this book and focus on building my description skills. So this novella is purposefully written out of my normal style. But I hope you like it anyway and would love to hear your thoughts on it, good or bad, as we go along. Ready for the opening? I thought you'd never ask.

Novella By Lindsey Renee Backen

 

Her steps betrayed her with a sucking noise as she peeled her sweaty heels from the white stone tile. The LED lights of the clock read 11:29 AM. Her eyes darted toward the couch, glimpsed the man’s chest rising and falling with the slow breath of sleep, then returned to the steel square at the bottom of the front door.

Her fingers tightened against the folded square of paper. She winced as it crinkled. Twelve steps would carry her to the delivery door, their sound covered by the mechanical grind of the gears as the door turned into a shelf and lowered with the bag of groceries. It would deposit them with one parallel turn and push the bag forward as the shelf realigned with the door, sealing the house for another week.

She rehearsed the process as she stepped through the arched entryway, expecting a two-second window when she could drop the message onto the moving shelf without it sliding into the grocery sack. Two seconds to tell a stranger that she was here. Two seconds to escape to freedom. And if she failed . . .

(Copyright 2023 Lindsey Renee Backen)

Loving Your . . . Problems?

The bigger the problem, the better he liked it. . .

Norman Vincent Peale. I appreciate that he uses his full name the way I do. We sound so confident, and the truth is I just liked the way the acute accent in Renée looked on paper. I read something in his book, Enthusiasm Makes the Difference.

"The old man (Harlowe B. Andrews) had so much downright native wisdom, penetrating insight and sharp intuition, plus the ability to think creatively, that he became a constant source of guidance for me. And I never knew a man who enjoyed problems as he did. He actually became excited by them; the knottier the problem, the more it interested him. He even thought that the big social problems were positively wonderful. His explanation of enthusiasm for problems troubling the world was a stimulating one. ‘Always be glad when there is trouble on the earth,’ Brother Andrews explained, ‘for it means there is movement in heaven; and this indicates great things are really looking up for mankind.’”

It struck me when I read "he enjoyed problems." I don't enjoy problems. I set the book down and thought about it for a while. I have learned to appreciate the growth that comes out of the harder parts of my life. I tend to feel very close to God when I’m aware of how much I need Him and I’m watching Him for guidance and sometimes a miracle. But to enjoy the problem itself?

Problems = Challenges

For a time in my life, I made a point to refer to problems as “challenges.” This made them seem less scary and appealed to the part of me that enjoys the idea of going on a quest. But even so, when I’m in the midst of a very large problem, or a whirlwind of smaller, various problems when they seem to come from every angle, I feel a lot of things. Fear. Overwhelm. Anger. Discouragement.

Defiantly, not enjoyment.

Those Really Knotty Problems

The image though, of a man smiling when presented with a problem, literally studying it, unwinding it, observing it piece by piece, and then creating order clicked something in my head.

Problems are like puzzles. When you examine them instead of trying to avoid them, you can see how they fit together or what is needed to make them connect and work smoothly again. Figuring out what components are needed and where the gaps are between the problem and the solution. I do very much enjoy planning. And isn't that what most problems are? A series of events that need a plan to implement a solution. That’s not so scary. That’s even a little exciting.

Trouble on Earth and Movements in Heaven

Jesus warned us that we would have trouble on Earth. The lack of trouble doesn’t mean that you’ve suddenly gotten life figured out and God is blessing your perfect obedience. Just like the presence of trouble doesn’t mean that you’re being punished for something (though it could indicate places you can change what you’re doing to get a better result.) But the world is full of things that go wrong. Problems are just part of being alive.

I have lived through events that did not turn out in my favor. But I have also had times of sleepless nights worrying about something, praying, living through an senario that looked grim and hopeless and then God came through. People banned together, plans suddenly got altered, and sometimes God completely flipped the script and the experience I was dreading turned out to be something I truly enjoyed. Other times I had to work to change the outcome, but it did turn around.

The Seeds of Solution

Psalms 25: 2 says “It is the glory of God to conceal a thing: but the honor of kings is to search out a matter.” This verse has always made me think of God watching people discover things with a delighted grin on His. I think that discovery is a component that He designed our brains to be rewarded by. He put us on earth to care for the world, to create new things from the raw resources around us, to help each other, to find better ways to do things. We do have to contend with the fallen nature of man, but, (to quote the book again) "Every problem has in it the seeds of its own solution. If you don't have any problems, you don't get any seeds."

This has changed the way I'm looking at my current life: everything from my schedule, to ironing out details of service for the Matagorda Connection website, to challenges affecting myself and people I love. When I write down the details, the problems don't seem as large, the solutions fall into place. And when they don't . . . why that requires creativity thinking and I happen to be an expert in creativity.

With God all things are possible. Every problem has a solution. Every solution needs a plan. And if there is one thing I am good at, it's making a plan. Has any of this given you an idea to untangle a problem in your life?

 

Don't Forget!

If you haven’t subscribed to my newsletter yet, please do now so you can get your copy of the audio drama for my short story featuring Dave from my novel Swing.

First Name Last Name Email Address Sign Up

We respect your privacy.

Thank you!

Join my exclusive email list today to gain access to the riveting audio play of "Dave's Story." Immerse yourself in an unforgettable auditory experience as you uncover the tale through captivating narration and sound effects.

Letters Home: A free short story from the characters of Swing

Want to know a secret? Dave is my favorite character from my book Swing . That’s right, grumpy old Dave who depends on his younger brother to keep from starving and resists all efforts of the neighbor girl to start a romance. When I published Swing back in 2016, I wrote a series of short stories for the main characters. Today I want to share Dave’s story with you brought back out of the vault of Lindsey’s lost stories. Enjoy!

Lindsey

Letters Home

Dear Family,
Well, boot camp sure didn’t last long. I’m already halfway across the world, and I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Somebody warned me to look out for flying foxes. I thought he was pulling my leg or that it was an army term I hadn’t learned yet, but when we were in the forest, an animal swooped down out of the tree. Looked mostly like a bat, but it was the size of a fox. Sent us all scattering in about ten different directions, screaming like a bunch of girls.

He’d been called a girl a lot lately, mostly by the sergeant whose favorite past time was yelling in their ears like they were deaf old men. Dave hadn’t expected to like anything about the army, but he hated it even more than he thought he would. He didn’t harbor bloodlust like some of the other guys. He came because it was the right thing to do, but the sooner he could end this and get home, the better.

The flying fox was the least of the terrors he’d seen, but it was the only one that was going to make it into his letter.

The cooking is awful here. You know it’s bad when my turn making dinner turns out the best. But I’ve learned to make a mean pot of coffee. Dad, it would wire even you for a week.

It wasn’t doing much for him, though. Dave knuckled an eye, glancing at Jason sleeping with his mouth hanging open. Edward was twitching already. He’d probably wake up screaming soon. Dave should sleep, too, but Sam, who was supposed to be on watch, looked like he might doze off any minute, so he’d probably volunteer to swap places. He wasn’t sure he could stay awake either, but his dreams were turning out scarier than the actual fights.
He chewed his tongue and eyed the letter. So many things he should have asked his dad before he left. He couldn’t pen any of his thoughts in the letter. Any number of eyes might see it before it reached home and even if could arrive home with no peeps, his little brother would be reading it.

The guys and I are pretty tight already. We look out for each other. I can’t tell you where we’re going next, but

But what? Some extra prayers from his mother wouldn’t hurt? The idea of going to on the frontlines made him want to wet his pants?

Trey would be horrified if he’d seen how many times Dave had gone from paralyzed with terror to shooting like a maniac. He’d nearly shot the flying fox.
Then again, if Trey were here, the kid would be hiding somewhere. The idea of his little brother here was horrible, but Dave snagged it like it was a canteen of fresh water. If he didn’t stay here and fight, this would be going over to his home and Trey really could be facing war like the boys here. That was enough to get his finger on the gun and pull the trigger over and over, without thinking too much about who he was shooting.

The Nazis were getting so desperate they were having kids fight their battles. The first time he’d seen a boy behind a gun, he’d froze. The kid had nearly shot him, too, missing only because Edward had blasted him first.
Dave still couldn’t think about it. Forced or no, every person he shot was a person that wouldn’t kill anybody else. Every guy he let live might shoot him and go on to shoot a hundred other people–even Trey if this war lasted that long. He didn’t have a choice.
But did that make it right?

I can’t tell you where we’re going, but don’t worry if you don’t hear from me. Not sure when I’ll get to write again. The sarge said I was such a good shot that he thought I must have been a hunter before I came. I let the guys think that I’m from some little farm in Texas and feed my family on squirrels and deer or something. Honestly, Dad, I swear when I get back, I will never complain about shucking corn or cleaning out a stall again. Unless it’s on Saturday night. Then I might.

His last Saturday night with Lucy had played over and over so many times that if it was a film reel, he’d have worn it out by now. He’d finally gotten his first car. He’d graduated. He’d even gotten an acceptance letter from a college. And Lucy had promised to marry him when he returned.

How is Lucy, really? She sounds alright in the letters, but it’s hard to tell. Heard from any of the other guys? I saw Luke three days ago, riding by on a tank. He waved, but we didn’t get to talk. Trey, you’d like the big tanks here. They’re huge and they can roll over brush like it’s grass.

They could roll over a lot of other things, too. Dave gagged and swallowed, setting down the pencil to rub his mouth. He’d jogged behind them, careful not to look too closely at the flattened mud he’d stepped in.
He glanced toward Sam, who had propped himself against a tree trunk. “What do you say when you write home?”
Sam pushed to his feet, stepping to the fire to pour himself another cup of coffee.
“Lot of sweet nothings to my girl,” he said. “Hope she’ll get the point and sent a bunch of ’em back.”
Dave’s mouth perked. Lucy’s letter had come smelling like her perfume.
“What about your folks?”
“Aw, you know. The normal stuff. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Of course, my handwriting’s so bad, they probably can’t read it anyway.”
Dave glanced over his short paragraphs, jumping from topic to topic and dancing around everything he really wanted to say. His handwriting wasn’t bad at all. Neither was his grammar, though his mother might get onto him for some of it.
So far, there hadn’t been many letters after boot camp. He had two from Lucy and one that his father had sent with him before he even stepped on the train.
"I’m proud of you, Son. I know that this decision wasn’t easy." Mr. Cunningham had said the words as he slid the letter into Dave’s hand. His eyes had misted as he clasped Dave’s shoulder.
“I love you.”
And what had Dave said back?
He closed his eyes, replaying the memory that he hadn’t let himself review until now. It was the tarnish on what would otherwise be a memory that would strengthen him.
His father had scared him. Mr. Cunningham had never been a man afraid of showing a softer side, but he wasn’t usually that upfront either. He’d spoken the words, quickly and quietly and almost brokenly like he was afraid he’d never have another chance.
And Dave, with the brashness of a guy more worried about covering fear than regretting unspoken sentiment had backed away from the man’s grasp. He’d grinned, like a youthful idiot.
“Aw, come on, Dad. I’m coming back.”
Then he’d swung onto the train, and he hadn’t had the guts to open and read whatever else the man had decided he’d better say while he had the chance. He should have, because the paper had gotten soaked with blood from a friend he’d dragged to safety. When the guy had died anyway, Dave had burned the damp letter, and now he couldn’t bring himself to ask his father to rewrite it.
He’d ask when he got home.
Guns crackled in the distance and something boomed, shaking the ground. Jason woke with a yell as both Dave and Sam jumped.
“Too far to fight,” Dave said.
“But it’s getting closer,” Sam replied. “They’ll reach us by morning if not before.”
Dave’s stomach clenched, envisioning staying awake all night in anticipation and being too groggy to fight by the time the firing started. But how was he supposed to sleep?
He glanced at the stars and blew out a breath.
Sam settled back down, setting his gun across his knees. “Better get some sleep boys. Hell’s coming.”
“Hell’s already here,” Jason muttered.
Dave forced himself to sit back down.
He should have read that letter. He flipped open his own to sign while he could. He didn’t want it to arrive half-finished.

Sorry it’s short. Mail’s going out soon and if I don’t get it in, it won’t go.

– Dave

He folded the letter and clenched his fingers lightly, closing his eyes.
I’m proud of you, son. I love you.
Aw, Dad, I’m coming back.
Dave gritted his teeth and reopened the letter. His last two sentences had changed from neat to a shaky line that probably gave away his lie, but he forced his hand to hold steady as he laboriously penned the post scriptorium.

P.S. I love you, too.