The real me exists only in dreams now. The other me? The one that exists in the real world? That’s the fake me.
Golden waffles drenched in maple syrup fill my dreams. They’re on a plate, being held out to me by someone. I tuck my long, thick hair behind my ears and look up into Kevin’s smiling face. He has nice teeth. Really nice, like he still flosses even though the world’s gone all wrong. My dad would like his teeth. I lean toward him, but there’s something in his eyes that sets off alarm bells. It is the way he watches me, like a boy watching a girl. He reaches out and twines his fingers through my hair. And then it hits me. My hair is too long. I have forgotten to be a boy. And now he knows.
I gasp and sit up, struggling to pull the sleeping bag from my face.
“You all right?” a deep voice asks.
I get the sleeping bag down and am face-to-face with Kevin. He’s sitting on the coffee table beside a burning kerosene lamp and leaning toward me. I run my fingers over my buzzed hair and sag with relief. My hair isn’t long and beautiful. It’s short and ugly. I smooth my hair down at the crown—the spot that always stands up when I sleep—and Kevin smiles, flashing his pearly teeth. I can’t help but look at them to see if they really are as nice as in my dream.
They are.
“I didn’t mean to startle you awake. I said your name a few times before I shook your shoulder.” He runs his tongue over his teeth. “And just for the record, I do floss.”
My mouth falls open but no words come out.
He puts his callused finger beneath my chin and chuckles when my teeth snap shut. “You talk in your sleep, featherweight. There’s floss in the cabinet above the bathroom sink—behind the spare toothbrushes—if you want some. You can use whatever you need while you’re here. I get a few hours of accumulated solar power every day, so the stove and microwave will work for a hot meal or two.”
He stands up and my eyes move over his hiking boots, jeans, and button-down shirt that probably used to be green plaid but is more like tan plaid now. There’s a backpack on his back and a knife on his belt. And a gun—a Glock—the twin to my dad’s gun, except his is fitted with a scratched and worn silencer. Silencers are used only when you want to kill someone without alerting others to your presence. A twinge of fear shudders through me.
Kevin takes a camouflage baseball cap from the table beside him and pulls it over his hair, which is in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. I jump from the sofa and let the sleeping bag slither down to my feet. “Are we leaving already?” I look at my watch. It’s almost seven a.m. Stepping from the sleeping bag, I look around for my shoes and socks. They’re where I left them, right beside the sofa.
“Jack.”
“What?” I start pulling on my socks.
“I’m leaving. You are staying here.”
I have put on both of my socks and shoved one of my feet into a shoe before his words sink in. Dropping my shoelaces, I look at him. “What did you say?”
“You can’t come. I’m going alone.”
“What?”
“To find your friends. I’m going alone. That”—he gestures toward the exit—“is no place for a . . .” He studies me for a long moment. “For a twelve-year-old.”
I glare at him and yank my shoelaces tight, then get my other shoe, pulling it onto my foot.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Help yourself to whatever you want to eat,” Kevin says, walking to the exit.
“I’m coming with you,” I insist, tying my other shoe.
“Bye, Jack.” His eyes meet mine for a brief second, and then he steps out the door, shutting it behind him. I stand and run into the kitchen for my backpack—there’s no way I’m sitting here alone while he goes out looking for my friends. I’ll follow him if I have to. I loop the backpack over one shoulder, sprint to the exit, twist the doorknob, and tug. My hand flies off of the handle and I stumble backward. I twist the knob again and realize it won’t twist. Putting both my hands on the knob and bracing a foot on the doorframe, I pull as hard as I can. The door stays firmly shut.
“Kevin!” I scream. Balling my hands into fists, I pound on the door and scream his name again, but the door stays shut, and Kevin never answers.
I twist the metal key on the side of the kerosene lamp and the flame dies. Dim sunlight filters into the shelter, making it unnecessary to use the kerosene lamp during the day. The light comes from several round glass circles in the ceiling—skylights of some sort.
The lock on the exit is completely unpickable, though not for a lack of trying. I’ve read books on lock-picking and even learned how to pick the locks on my house. The shelter door won’t unlock.
When I resign myself to the fact that I’m a prisoner, I give in to my Kevin-induced fury and start going through all of his stuff. Total revenge. I sort through a small chest of drawers in the main room. It’s filled with a few pairs of boxer shorts, jeans, a couple of torn shirts, and ball caps. Boring.
Next I rummage through all his metal sculpting stuff. Tools. Tools. Leather gloves. Tools. Even more boring.
I take the cushions from the sofa and look under them, and I find some stale popcorn, a handful of pennies, a single bullet, and lots of lint. I examine the chairs, look under the rug for a nonexistent secret door, and rummage through the bathroom cabinet again (and borrow some floss for my teeth). Kevin says he lives here, but it’s not like he really lives here. Aside from the wire sculptures and his underwear, there’s nothing personal here, nothing that really tells me more about him.
My stomach rumbles, so I go to the kitchen and take out the buttermilk pancake mix and powdered eggs. While my breakfast is cooking, I mix a cup of powdered milk. In a matter of minutes I am sitting at the small round table nestled in the kitchen’s corner, eating steaming pancakes and eggs. Dad always says hunger is the best spice. He’s right. I have never tasted anything so delicious. After two pancakes, I get a container of powdered sugar and sprinkle it onto the remaining two pancakes. As the sugar melts onto my tongue, I melt against my chair.
When my food is eaten and my belly feels like it’s on the verge of popping, I go to Kevin’s dresser and get a pair of jeans with tears over both knees and a comfortably worn red hoodie with a torn shoulder and sleeves that completely cover my hands, and is bulky enough to hide any trace of curves. I swap my clothes for his and put mine—everything but the vest—into the sink, scrubbing them with the bar of soap and then laying them on the counter to air-dry. I get Kevin’s bloody shirt from the day before and scrub it next, laying it on the counter beside my shirt.
While I wait for the clothes to dry, I start going through the kitchen cupboards one by one, already thinking about what I am going to eat for my next meal. If I have to be a prisoner, I suppose this is the way to do it. The cupboards over the sink and stove all contain food—dehydrated beef stew, dehydrated soy meat substitute, potato flakes, biscuit mix, chocolate pudding mix, freeze-dried bananas and strawberries. My mouth waters despite my full belly. Kevin has more food variety than I have seen in three years—since the pesticide destroyed everything that survived the honeybee decline. It makes me wonder about him again. Who is he and how in the world did he find this place?
The cupboards beneath the sink are loaded with supplies: candles, matches, lighters, batteries, bullets (though no guns), flashlights, flares, rope, needles and thread, sunblock, ponchos, all sorts of different sizes of random shoes—more things than I can remember.
The cupboards on the other side of the kitchen are filled with more supplies, like gallons and gallons of kerosene and extra blankets. I kneel down for a closer look. There’s a box of diapers in there too.
I get to the farthest cupboard, nestled behind the table, and open it. This cupboard is different. It has a damp, musty smell. Shiny half-gallon cans of whole wheat flour with tan labels fill this cupboard from top to bottom. Visions of fresh-baked bread fill my imagination, and I wonder if I’ve overlooked any yeast. I take out a can of flour and pause. The musty smell has intensified.
I take out another can and find more cans of flour behind it. The flour is four cans deep, four cans wide, and three cans high. One by one, I take out all the cans of flour, stacking them onto the cement floor beside me, until the cupboard is empty and there are forty-eight cans of flour taking up most of the kitchen floor. With the cupboard empty, the musty smell is stronger, and the cupboard seems cooler than any other part of the shelter. I stick my head in for a closer look and my hands start to tremble.
Backing out, I go to a supply cupboard, get a flashlight and insert batteries, and shine it into the depths of the cupboard. At the back is a door handle. I crawl inside. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I twist and yelp with surprise when it turns. The back of the cupboard swings away from me, opening into pitch-blackness.