station. It’s not like it used to be.”
I eyed her speculatively. It was easy to see a casual user, a girl who was hooked on nightlife and recreational drugs. She’d gone as far as she could working with the good genetics that had made her attractive. She had managed her resources to their best effect in order to fund her habits. No one living her lifestyle sent people to talk to policemen. Maybe her worry was a simple underlying fear I would grow a big mouth and talk about magically opening safes full of cash…and how we had helped ourselves to it.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said, standing up.
She looked me over. “Let me at least get you some clothes that don’t scream freak in a raincoat .”
I smiled and let her lead me to a cluster of paper bags that stood behind an army of strappy shoes in her closet. Each bag was full of neatly folded clothes, which seemed odd, but I quickly figured out each bag had been left behind by a different boyfriend at one point or another. She had a variety of sizes and soon managed to outfit me in jeans, a dress shirt, and a navy blue hoodie. The pants were a bit loose, so she handed me a belt. For shoes, I had my choice. I went with black running shoes. They looked good and wouldn’t slow me down if I needed to move fast.
I checked my legs out, squeezing with my hands. Before I had slept and showered, they had been sore and I’d had a noticeable limp. Now, they felt fresh and only slightly stiff. I really did appear to heal fast, just as I’d told the nurse back at the sanatorium.
“Thanks,” I told her, and I meant it.
“It’s the least I can do,” she said.
Holly followed me to the door. I stepped out onto a concrete walkway.
I turned around and looked at her. “Can I come back to call on you sometime?”
She smiled and kissed me lightly on the cheek. It felt good.
“You can,” she said. “But don’t bring trouble, OK?”
I shook my head. “No promises in that department.”
I left her then and headed down the stairs. Experimentally, I took two at a time. It hurt my knees, so I slowed down and leaned on the rail. There was no reason to push things.
I looked back at her once and saw her standing above me, bent over the rail and watching me. Then I left the courtyard and headed out onto the street.
I pulled my hood over my hair and headed into the northern districts. People were less likely to mess with you when they couldn’t see your face. It was a bad neighborhood that had once been middle-class. Everyone I passed was either a predator or a victim—I found it easy to pick out one from the other. Each eyed me, calculating which category I was in just as I did the same to them. As we passed by one another, people invariably took a step or so to the side—a respectful acknowledgment that I didn’t look like a mark. I often did the same, signaling I wasn’t dangerous at the moment. But my silence, my hood, and my lack of expression gave the impression I could be dangerous under the right circumstances.
I knew something was wrong before I reached my house. I suppose it was the smoky smell in the air. The stink grew and grew until I stopped dead on the sidewalk. My place…was gone.
I knew what my house must have looked like—even if I couldn’t remember it. Every house on the block looked more or less the same. They were all mid-1900s stucco boxes. There were rows of flip-up garage doors, blandly painted walls coated in spiderwebs, and yards full of weeds. Some yards had degenerated into pure crabgrass and dried-out trees. Others lawns had taken the final step, reverting to the purity of the desert sands from whence they’d come. Water was expensive in the city, and not everyone could afford to water their patch of land.
My house was on the right, the third from the corner. There wasn’t much house left, however. Looking at the devastation, my first thought was that it must have burned down, although it looked more thoroughly destroyed than a
I eyed her speculatively. It was easy to see a casual user, a girl who was hooked on nightlife and recreational drugs. She’d gone as far as she could working with the good genetics that had made her attractive. She had managed her resources to their best effect in order to fund her habits. No one living her lifestyle sent people to talk to policemen. Maybe her worry was a simple underlying fear I would grow a big mouth and talk about magically opening safes full of cash…and how we had helped ourselves to it.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said, standing up.
She looked me over. “Let me at least get you some clothes that don’t scream freak in a raincoat .”
I smiled and let her lead me to a cluster of paper bags that stood behind an army of strappy shoes in her closet. Each bag was full of neatly folded clothes, which seemed odd, but I quickly figured out each bag had been left behind by a different boyfriend at one point or another. She had a variety of sizes and soon managed to outfit me in jeans, a dress shirt, and a navy blue hoodie. The pants were a bit loose, so she handed me a belt. For shoes, I had my choice. I went with black running shoes. They looked good and wouldn’t slow me down if I needed to move fast.
I checked my legs out, squeezing with my hands. Before I had slept and showered, they had been sore and I’d had a noticeable limp. Now, they felt fresh and only slightly stiff. I really did appear to heal fast, just as I’d told the nurse back at the sanatorium.
“Thanks,” I told her, and I meant it.
“It’s the least I can do,” she said.
Holly followed me to the door. I stepped out onto a concrete walkway.
I turned around and looked at her. “Can I come back to call on you sometime?”
She smiled and kissed me lightly on the cheek. It felt good.
“You can,” she said. “But don’t bring trouble, OK?”
I shook my head. “No promises in that department.”
I left her then and headed down the stairs. Experimentally, I took two at a time. It hurt my knees, so I slowed down and leaned on the rail. There was no reason to push things.
I looked back at her once and saw her standing above me, bent over the rail and watching me. Then I left the courtyard and headed out onto the street.
I pulled my hood over my hair and headed into the northern districts. People were less likely to mess with you when they couldn’t see your face. It was a bad neighborhood that had once been middle-class. Everyone I passed was either a predator or a victim—I found it easy to pick out one from the other. Each eyed me, calculating which category I was in just as I did the same to them. As we passed by one another, people invariably took a step or so to the side—a respectful acknowledgment that I didn’t look like a mark. I often did the same, signaling I wasn’t dangerous at the moment. But my silence, my hood, and my lack of expression gave the impression I could be dangerous under the right circumstances.
I knew something was wrong before I reached my house. I suppose it was the smoky smell in the air. The stink grew and grew until I stopped dead on the sidewalk. My place…was gone.
I knew what my house must have looked like—even if I couldn’t remember it. Every house on the block looked more or less the same. They were all mid-1900s stucco boxes. There were rows of flip-up garage doors, blandly painted walls coated in spiderwebs, and yards full of weeds. Some yards had degenerated into pure crabgrass and dried-out trees. Others lawns had taken the final step, reverting to the purity of the desert sands from whence they’d come. Water was expensive in the city, and not everyone could afford to water their patch of land.
My house was on the right, the third from the corner. There wasn’t much house left, however. Looking at the devastation, my first thought was that it must have burned down, although it looked more thoroughly destroyed than a
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