the wall. The cement was freezing and the jolt of cold helped to clear his head. He was so tired that the whole world was starting to feel surreal.
When his neighbor Alexa pushed through the outside door into the stairwell, he jumped a little. She was carrying a paper grocery bag in each arm, and her hair had spilled out of her plastic barrettes, falling sloppily in her eyes. She was too young to be grocery shopping on her own—twelve, maybe thirteen—but the kids in the Avalon Apartments were all like that, running household errands and raising themselves or their siblings.
“Hey, Lexi,” Truman said, stepping away from the wall. He reached to take one of her bags. “What’s happening?”
She shrugged and looked away, letting him have the groceries. “I hate when you call me Lexi.” But she was grinning at the floor, cheeks pink, eyes downcast.
He reached out with his free hand and tweaked her nose. “I’m just being a dick. Seriously, has your break been good?”
Alexa nodded, still looking somewhere else, over his shoulder maybe, or above his head. She seemed on the verge of floating off, only anchored down by the bag of groceries she held against her chest.
When Truman started for the stairs, she followed him and they went up side by side, not talking.
On the fourth-floor landing, he held the stairwell door for her. She slipped past him, then turned and looked up into his face. Her expression was serious. “Were you drunk last night?”
The question surprised him and he didn’t answer right away, just started down the hall to her apartment, wondering what he should say. Alexa was a weird kid, but sharp. She noticed things. She hung around the stairwell or the lobby pretty much all the time, but she didn’t pester him or tag along, and he could always count on her not to say anything to Charlie or her mother.
“No,” he said finally. “I mean, I might have gotten a little buzzed after I got off work, but not drunk . Why?”
They were at Alexa’s door now, and she was fumbling the keys out of her coat pocket. “I was out in the parking lot,” she said, not looking at him. “I thought I saw you come in.”
“Nah,” he said, feeling tired and guilty.
Not guilty enough to stop doing it, though. Drunk was good. It was necessary, because when he was drunk, he didn’t dream. Only lately, it took a lot of alcohol to get him there and even a blackout usually wore off by dawn, making for bad scenes like the one this morning.
He leaned against the wall, looking down at her. “It could have been one of the guys up on the fifth floor or something. Anyway, what were you doing out so late?”
“Nothing.” She worked the toe of her sneaker on the carpet. “Looking for you. I just thought—it’s stupid, but I thought something had happened to you.”
Suddenly, Truman’s throat felt very tight and he laughed uncomfortably. “Me? I’m fine.”
She didn’t answer, simply looked. He tried to imagine what she must see and it wasn’t good. The shadows around his eyes were so dark it looked like someone had been hitting him.
“I’m fine,” he said again, and this time her face cleared and she smiled.
“Yeah, sure. I was just being stupid.”
But there was a look in her eyes that reminded him of last winter, of red water soaking into the hall carpet. A memory that he spent every minute of every day trying to forget.
CICERO
CHAPTER SEVEN
W hen I step through the little wooden door, everything is so bright that, for a moment, I can’t even make out shapes. Then the blindness clears and the world shimmers into focus.
I’m standing under a bridge. The sky above me is blue, but it’s much paler than I had expected sky to be. At my feet, the pavement is littered with empty bottles and the stubs of cigarettes. I can feel the air on my face, uncomfortable and strange. This is cold. And I like it.
I stoop to touch the ground and my palms come away gritty and smeared with something black. A new
When his neighbor Alexa pushed through the outside door into the stairwell, he jumped a little. She was carrying a paper grocery bag in each arm, and her hair had spilled out of her plastic barrettes, falling sloppily in her eyes. She was too young to be grocery shopping on her own—twelve, maybe thirteen—but the kids in the Avalon Apartments were all like that, running household errands and raising themselves or their siblings.
“Hey, Lexi,” Truman said, stepping away from the wall. He reached to take one of her bags. “What’s happening?”
She shrugged and looked away, letting him have the groceries. “I hate when you call me Lexi.” But she was grinning at the floor, cheeks pink, eyes downcast.
He reached out with his free hand and tweaked her nose. “I’m just being a dick. Seriously, has your break been good?”
Alexa nodded, still looking somewhere else, over his shoulder maybe, or above his head. She seemed on the verge of floating off, only anchored down by the bag of groceries she held against her chest.
When Truman started for the stairs, she followed him and they went up side by side, not talking.
On the fourth-floor landing, he held the stairwell door for her. She slipped past him, then turned and looked up into his face. Her expression was serious. “Were you drunk last night?”
The question surprised him and he didn’t answer right away, just started down the hall to her apartment, wondering what he should say. Alexa was a weird kid, but sharp. She noticed things. She hung around the stairwell or the lobby pretty much all the time, but she didn’t pester him or tag along, and he could always count on her not to say anything to Charlie or her mother.
“No,” he said finally. “I mean, I might have gotten a little buzzed after I got off work, but not drunk . Why?”
They were at Alexa’s door now, and she was fumbling the keys out of her coat pocket. “I was out in the parking lot,” she said, not looking at him. “I thought I saw you come in.”
“Nah,” he said, feeling tired and guilty.
Not guilty enough to stop doing it, though. Drunk was good. It was necessary, because when he was drunk, he didn’t dream. Only lately, it took a lot of alcohol to get him there and even a blackout usually wore off by dawn, making for bad scenes like the one this morning.
He leaned against the wall, looking down at her. “It could have been one of the guys up on the fifth floor or something. Anyway, what were you doing out so late?”
“Nothing.” She worked the toe of her sneaker on the carpet. “Looking for you. I just thought—it’s stupid, but I thought something had happened to you.”
Suddenly, Truman’s throat felt very tight and he laughed uncomfortably. “Me? I’m fine.”
She didn’t answer, simply looked. He tried to imagine what she must see and it wasn’t good. The shadows around his eyes were so dark it looked like someone had been hitting him.
“I’m fine,” he said again, and this time her face cleared and she smiled.
“Yeah, sure. I was just being stupid.”
But there was a look in her eyes that reminded him of last winter, of red water soaking into the hall carpet. A memory that he spent every minute of every day trying to forget.
CICERO
CHAPTER SEVEN
W hen I step through the little wooden door, everything is so bright that, for a moment, I can’t even make out shapes. Then the blindness clears and the world shimmers into focus.
I’m standing under a bridge. The sky above me is blue, but it’s much paler than I had expected sky to be. At my feet, the pavement is littered with empty bottles and the stubs of cigarettes. I can feel the air on my face, uncomfortable and strange. This is cold. And I like it.
I stoop to touch the ground and my palms come away gritty and smeared with something black. A new