The night passes. Morning comes. The dim world catches fire and light streams in the broken building.
I have not slept. The light shifts and changes.
And I know I will rise today.
I have not eaten in nearly two days. If I wanted, I could deal with that, but I thirst. Halfway through the night, I longed for rain, and I could think of nothing but how dry my throat was. I could have redirected my thoughts, but it was such a simple desire, such a painful and uncomplicated ache, that I feasted on it.
Now I can think of nothing else.
I have given up the notion of letting myself waste away. I will eke out an existence here, or elsewhere. I will find a barren, abandoned corner of the world and spend all my energies in the struggle of simply surviving.
(Even as I admit to myself that this is the existence I most deserve if I am not capable of accepting death–and I am not–I know that I imagine such an existence with an aura of self-sacrificial triumph. Even in my self-afflictions I search for my own happiness. I cannot avoid it.)
I stand. For the first time I really look at my surroundings. The floorplan has the structure of a residence converted to a business, but nothing remains but ruins. This place had been abandoned before the destruction. I limp out of the back room, into the debris-filled showroom. The windows are frames with a few remaining shards of glass.
To my lowered eyes, the sun is bright as I step into the square. The wind catches me; the sun dims. Glancing up, I see the cloud pass in front of the light. I smile without emotion.
I stump forward, choosing a direction because the path looks level. I pass out of the square into narrow streets. I sense eyes watching me, but I do not know if it is my imagination or truth. I stop and almost turn back. I am without magic; I am a woman without defenses; I have been assaulted three times in recent memory. Deep fear clutches my limbs. I return to the square, return to my back corner. And I wait.
* * *
Next I exit, the clouds are thicker, and the sun struggles to break through. The wind is rising, an edge of cold on its breath, despite the season. I turn the way I had chosen before. And I force myself to walk.
I do not need Bron to protect me. He is unable to protect me in this world. Let him protect Nyasha.
I take the alleys and side streets, if the way is clear, looking for something I can gather–food and drink and blanket. I do not know what buildings to enter and which to avoid, so I walk, gazing in shattered windows and open doors, looking for some sure sign that will draw me in.
I smell it on the wind. Something cooking. In a dead end, between two ancient buildings with hardly the space for a single person between, someone sits at a little fire. I stop in the entrance to the alley, and she looks up at me.
“What do you want?” she demands.
“Give me some food.”
She laughs. “No. This is mine.”
“What is it?”
“Dog. Plenty of that about.”
I step into the alley, moving awkwardly in the tight space. The three-story buildings nearly touch at the top.
“I’d stop there,” she says.
“I’ll give you something. I just want a little. And something to drink.”
“You’re a bloody mess. What happened to you?”
I look down at myself. My clothes are stained and crusty. They must be someone else’s.
“Give me something and I’ll go away.”
The woman gazes at me with cold eyes. Her face is petrified beauty, a hag peering out the skin of a maiden. “I’ve handled men twice your size, gimp.”
“Where do you live? What did you do?”
“I’ll count to five. Then I’m drawing blood.”
I take one more step, out of stubbornness, not boldness.
“Three,” she says, skipping one and two.
“I’m so thirsty.”
“Four.”
“I’ll give you anything. What do you want?”
“You ain’t got nothing, or you wouldn’t be asking for food.”
Possessed–whether by hunger or thirst or the need to get what I want; or perhaps even because I had planned it all along–I begin pulling at the straps of my prosthetic arm. “Take this.”
“What is it?
“Just take it. I don’t want it. Take it. How many gimps are running around now? Thousands, I bet. Some high and mighty invalid will want a good arm. Take it.” I almost have my the straps undone, but it takes too long. I cry out in frustration and turn away.
“Want help?” It’s a mocking voice.
“No. I have it.” My fingers tug and pull, fumbling. Finally, I do have it. I hold it out for her. “Will this do as payment?”
“For dog and whiskey? Sure. That’s the going price. An arm or a leg.”
She snatches the arm from me, looking it over carefully. “It’s well made,” I say. A lie, in my case, but Nyasha thought it was.
“I’ll take your word. Government’s trying to act like nothing’s changed. They’ll take it.”
Slowly, I sit across from her, feeling exposed. “I’m hungry.”
“It’s almost done.”
“Drink?”
She uncovers a half-empty bottle from beneath a pile of rags she leans back against. “It’s yours. Savor it.”
I uncork it one-handed and take a deep draught. It burns, blackening my throat. I cough, then take another drink.
“I was a Select.”
“Lucky you.”
I sit silently, drinking too quickly, my whole body growing light, as this woman stares at the fire and the meat cooking in its flames. I wonder how she managed to butcher a dog. I cannot conceive of doing it myself. The aroma is delicious.
Finally, she hands me a skewer and I take a bite, burning my lips and tongue. It hardly slows me. I devour it and lick the metal that used to be a knitting needle. I look for another, but she has eaten the rest.
And now she stares at me meaningfully. I stand.
“I won’t be here again,” she says. “Don’t look for me.”
I walk out of the alley.
“You’d best find something useful to do or sell, or you’ll starve.”
I retrace my steps, feeling lighter, as if I will soon drift away. My stomach roils from the food, sick and gnawing. In my addled brain, I consider giving myself limb by limb until nothing is left but the endless thinking. That is why I will never escape; my thoughts will rise up eternal and vain even when my body passes away.
The wind chases me back to my corner, and I drink the remnants of the bottle as the light grows dim.
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