Games at Twilight
by Anita Desai
(1) It was still too hot to play outdoors. They had had their tea, they had been washed and had their hair brushed, and after the long day of confinement in the house that was not cool but at least a protection from the sun, the children strained to get out. Their faces were red and bloated with the effort, but their mother would not open the door, everything was still curtained and shuttered in a way that stifled the children, made them feel that their lungs were stuffed with cotton wool and their noses with dust and if they didn’t burst out into the light and see the sun and feel the air, they would choke.
(2) “Please, ma, please,” they begged. “We’ll play in the veranda and porch—we won’t go a step out of the porch.”
(3) “You will, I know you will, and then——”
(4) “No—we won’t, we won’t,” they wailed so horrendously that she actually let down the bolt of the front door so that they burst out like seeds from a crackling, overripe pod into the veranda, with such wild, maniacal yells that she retreated to her bath and the shower of talcum powder and the fresh sari that were to help her face the summer evening.
(5) They faced the afternoon. It was too hot. Too bright. The white walls of the veranda glared stridently in the sun. The bougainvillea hung about it, purple and magenta, in livid balloons. The garden outside was like a tray made of beaten brass, flattened out on the red gravel and the stony soil in all shades of metal—aluminum, tin, copper, and brass. No life stirred at this arid time of day—the birds still drooped, like dead fruit, in the papery tents of the trees; some squirrels lay limp on the wet earth under the garden tap. The outdoor dog lay stretched as if dead on the veranda mat, his paws and ears and tail all reaching out like dying travelers in search of water. He rolled his eyes at the children—two white marbles rolling in the purple sockets, begging for sympathy—and attempted to lift his tail in a wag but could not. It only twitched and lay still.
(6) Then, perhaps roused by the shrieks of the children, a band of parrots suddenly fell out of the eucalyptus tree, tumbled frantically in the still, sizzling air, then sorted themselves out into battle formation and streaked away across the white sky.
(7) The children, too, felt released. They too began tumbling, shoving, pushing against each other, frantic to start. Start what? Start their business. The business of the children’s day which is—play.
(8) “Let’s play hide-and-seek.”
(9) “Who’ll be It?”
(10) “You be It.”
(11) “Why should I? You be——”
(12) “You’re the eldest——”
(13) “That doesn’t mean——”
(14) The shoves became harder. Some kicked out. The motherly Mira intervened. She pulled the boys roughly apart. There was a tearing sound of cloth, but it was lost in the heavy panting and angry grumbling, and no one paid attention to the small sleeve hanging loosely off a shoulder.
(15) “Make a circle, make a circle!” she shouted, firmly pulling and pushing till a kind of vague circle was formed. “Now clap!” she roared, and, clapping, they all chanted in melancholy unison: “Dip, dip, dip—my blue ship——” and every now and then one or the other saw he was safe by the way his hands fell at the crucial moment—palm on palm, or back of hand on palm—and dropped out of the circle with a yell and a jump of relief and jubilation.
(16) Raghu was It. He started to protest, to cry “You cheated—Mira cheated—Anu cheated——” but it was too late, the others had all already streaked away. There was no one to hear when he called out, “Only in the veranda—the porch—Ma said—Ma said to stay in the porch!” No one had stopped to listen, all he saw were their brown legs flashing through the dusty shrubs, scrambling up brick walls, leaping over compost heaps and hedges, and then the porch stood empty in the purple shade of the bougainvillea, and the garden was as empty as before; even the limp squirrels had whisked away, leaving everything gleaming, brassy, and bare.
(17) Only small Manu suddenly reappeared, as if he had dropped out of an invisible cloud or from a bird’s claws, and stood for a moment in the center of the yellow lawn, chewing his finger and near to tears as he heard Raghu shouting, with his head pressed against the veranda wall, “Eighty-three, eighty-five, eighty-nine, ninety . . .” and then made off in a panic, half of him wanting to fly north, the other half counseling south. Raghu turned just in time to see the flash of his white shorts and the uncertain skittering of his red sandals, and charged after him with such a bloodcurdling yell that Manu stumbled over the hosepipe, fell into its rubber coils, and lay there weeping, “I won’t be It—you have to find them all—all—All!”
(18) “I know I have to, idiot,” Raghu said, superciliously kicking him with his toe. “You’re dead,” he said with satisfaction, licking the beads of perspiration off his upper lip, and then stalked off in search of worthier prey, whistling spiritedly so that the hiders should hear and tremble.
(19) Ravi heard the whistling and picked his nose in a panic, trying to find comfort by burrowing the finger deep—deep into that soft tunnel. He felt himself too exposed, sitting on an upturned flowerpot behind the garage. Where could he burrow? He could run around the garage if he heard Raghu come—around and around and around—but he hadn’t much faith in his short legs when matched against Raghu’s long, hefty, hairy footballer legs. Ravi had a frightening glimpse of them as Raghu combed the hedge of crotons and hibiscus, trampling delicate ferns underfoot as he did so. Ravi looked about him desperately, swallowing a small ball of snot in his fear.
(20) The garage was locked with a great heavy lock to which the driver had the key in his room, hanging from a nail on the wall under his workshirt. Ravi had peeped in and seen him still sprawling on his string cot in his vest and striped underpants, the hair on his chest and the hair in his nose shaking with the vibrations of his phlegm-obstructed snores. Ravi had wished he were tall enough, big enough to reach the key on the nail, but it was impossible, beyond his reach for years to come. He had sidled away and sat dejectedly on the flowerpot. That at least was cut to his own size.
(21) But next to the garage was another shed with a big green door. Also locked. No one even knew who had the key to the lock. That shed wasn’t opened more than once a year, when Ma turned out all the old broken bits of furniture and rolls of matting and leaking buckets, and the white anthills were broken and swept away and Flit sprayed into the spider webs and rat holes so that the whole operation was like the looting of a poor, ruined, and conquered city. The green leaves of the door sagged. They were nearly off their rusty hinges. The hinges were large and made a small gap between the door and the walls—only just large enough for rats, dogs, and, possibly, Ravi to slip through.
(22) Ravi had never cared to enter such a dark and depressing mortuary of defunct household goods seething with such unspeakable and alarming animal life but, as Raghu’s whistling grew angrier and sharper and his crashing and storming in the hedge wilder, Ravi suddenly slipped off the flowerpot and through the crack and was gone. He chuckled aloud with astonishment at his own temerity so that Raghu came out of the hedge, stood silent with his hands on his hips, listening, and finally shouted, “I heard you! I’m coming! Got you——” and came charging round the garage only to find the upturned flowerpot, the yellow dust, the crawling of white ants in a mud hill against the closed shed door—nothing. Snarling, he bent to pick up a stick and went off, whacking it against the garage and shed walls as if to beat out his prey.
(23) Ravi shook, then shivered with delight, with self-congratulation. Also with fear. It was dark, spooky in the shed. It had a muffled smell, as of graves. Ravi had once got locked into the linen cupboard and sat there weeping for half an hour before he was rescued. But at least that had been a familiar place, and even smelled pleasantly of starch, laundry, and, reassuringly, of his mother. But the shed smelled of rats, anthills, dust, and spider webs. Also of less definable, less recognizable horrors. And it was dark. Except for the white-hot cracks along the door, there was no light. The roof was very low. Although Ravi was small, he felt as if he could reach up and touch it with his fingertips. But he didn’t stretch. He hunched himself into a ball so as not to bump into anything, touch or feel anything. What might there not be to touch him and feel him as he stood there, trying to see in the dark? Something cold, or slimy—like a snake. Snakes! He leapt up as Raghu whacked the wall with his stick—then, quickly realizing what it was, felt almost relieved to hear Raghu, hear his stick. It made him feel protected.
(24) But Raghu soon moved away. There wasn’t a sound once his footsteps had gone around the garage and disappeared. Ravi stood frozen inside the shed. Then he shivered all over. Something had tickled the back of his neck. It took him a while to pick up the courage to lift his hand and explore. It was an insect—perhaps a spider—exploring him. He squashed it and wondered how many more creatures were watching him, waiting to reach out and touch him, the stranger.
(25) There was nothing now. After standing in that position—his hand still on his neck, feeling the wet splodge of the squashed spider gradually dry—for minutes, hours, his legs began to tremble with the effort, the inaction. By now he could see enough in the dark to make out the large solid shapes of old wardrobes, broken buckets, and bedsteads piled on top of each other around him. He recognized an old bathtub—patches of enamel glimmered at him, and at last he lowered himself onto its edge.
(26) He contemplated slipping out of the shed and into the fray. He wondered if it would not be better to be captured by Raghu and be returned to the milling crowd as long as he could be in the sun, the light, the free spaces of the garden, and the familiarity of his brothers, sisters, and cousins. It would be evening soon. Their games would become legitimate. The parents would sit out on the lawn on cane basket chairs and watch them as they tore around the garden or gathered in knots to share a loot of mulberries or black, teeth-splitting jamun from the garden trees. The gardener would fix the hosepipe to the water tap, and water would fall lavishly through the air to the ground, soaking the dry yellow grass and the red gravel and arousing the sweet, the intoxicating scent of water on dry earth—that loveliest scent in the world. Ravi sniffed for a whiff of it. He half-rose from the bathtub, then heard the despairing scream of one of the girls as Raghu bore down upon her. There was the sound of a crash, and of rolling about in the bushes, the shrubs, then screams and accusing sobs of “I touched the den——” “You did not——” “I did——” “You liar, you did not” and then a fading away and silence again.
(27) Ravi sat back on the harsh edge of the tub, deciding to hold out a bit longer. What fun if they were all found and caught—he alone left unconquered! He had never known that sensation. Nothing more wonderful had ever happened to him than being taken out by an uncle and bought a whole slab of chocolate all to himself, or being flung into the soda man’s pony cart and driven up to the gate by the friendly driver with the red beard and pointed ears. To defeat Raghu—that hirsute, hoarse-voiced football champion—and to be the winner in a circle of older, bigger, luckier children—that would be thrilling beyond imagination. He hugged his knees together and smiled to himself almost shyly at the thought of so much victory, such laurels.
(28) There he sat smiling, knocking his heels against the bathtub, now and then getting up and going to the door to put his ear to the broad crack and listening for sounds of the game, the pursuer and the pursued, and then returning to his seat with the dogged determination of the true winner, a breaker of records, a champion.
(29) It grew darker in the shed as the light at the door grew softer, fuzzier, turned to a kind of crumbling yellow pollen that turned to yellow fur, blue fur, gray fur. Evening. Twilight. The sound of water gushing, falling. The scent of earth receiving water, slaking its thirst in great gulps and releasing that green scent of freshness, coolness. Through the crack Ravi saw the long purple shadows of the shed and the garage lying still across the yard. Beyond that, the white walls of the house. The bougainvillea had lost its lividity, hung in dark bundles that quaked and twittered and seethed with masses of homing sparrows. The lawn was shut off from his view. Could he hear the children’s voices? It seemed to him that he could. It seemed to him that he could hear them chanting, singing, laughing. But what about the game? What had happened? Could it be over? How could it when he was still not found?
(30) It then occurred to him that he could have slipped out long ago, dashed across the yard to the veranda, and touched the “den.” It was necessary to do that to win. He had forgotten. He had only remembered the part of hiding and trying to elude the seeker. He had done that so successfully, his success had occupied him so wholly, that he had quite forgotten that success had to be clinched by that final dash to victory and the ringing cry of “Den!”
(31) With a whimper he burst through the crack, fell on his knees, got up, and stumbled on stiff, benumbed legs across the shadowy yard, crying heartily by the time he reached the veranda so that when he flung himself at the white pillar and bawled, “Den! Den! Den!” his voice broke with rage and pity at the disgrace of it all, and he felt himself flooded with tears and misery.
(32) Out on the lawn, the children stopped chanting. They all turned to stare at him in amazement. Their faces were pale and triangular in the dusk. The trees and bushes around them stood inky and sepulchral, spilling long shadows across them. They stared, wondering at his reappearance, his passion, his wild animal howling. Their mother rose from her basket chair and came toward him, worried, annoyed, saying, “Stop it, stop it, Ravi. Don’t be a baby. Have you hurt yourself?” Seeing him attended to, the children went back to clasping their hands and chanting, “The grass is green, the rose is red. . . .”
(33) But Ravi would not let them. He tore himself out of his mother’s grasp and pounded across the lawn into their midst, charging at them with his head lowered so that they scattered in surprise. “I won, I won, I won,” he bawled, shaking his head so that the big tears flew. “Raghu didn’t find me. I won, I won——”
(34) It took them a minute to grasp what he was saying, even who he was. They had quite forgotten him. Raghu had found all the others long ago. There had been a fight about who was to be It next. It had been so fierce that their mother had emerged from her bath and made them change to another game. Then they had played another and another. Broken mulberries from the tree and eaten them. Helped the driver wash the car when their father returned from work. Helped the gardener water the beds till he roared at them and swore he would complain to their parents. The parents had come out, taken up their positions on the cane chairs. They had begun to play again, sing and chant. All this time no one had remembered Ravi. Having disappeared from the scene, he had disappeared from their minds. Clean.
(35) “Don’t be a fool,” Raghu said roughly, pushing him aside, and even Mira said, “Stop howling, Ravi. If you want to play, you can stand at the end of the line,” and she put him there very firmly.
(36) The game proceeded. Two pairs of arms reached up and met in an arc. The children trooped under it again and again in a lugubrious circle, ducking their heads and intoning
(37) “The grass is green,
The rose is red;
Remember me
When I am dead, dead, dead, dead . . .”
(38) And the arc of thin arms trembled in the twilight, and the heads were bowed so sadly, and their feet tramped to that melancholy refrain so mournfully, so helplessly, that Ravi could not bear it. He would not follow them, he would not be included in this funereal game. He had wanted victory and triumph—not a funeral. But he had been forgotten, left out, and he would not join them now. The ignominy of being forgotten—how could he face it? He felt his heart go heavy and ache inside him unbearably. He lay down full length on the damp grass, crushing his face into it, no longer crying, silenced by a terrible sense of his insignificance.
‘Games at Twilight’ from Games at Twilight and Other Stories by Anita Desai. Published by Penguin Random House. Copyright © Anita Desai. Reproduced by permission of the author c/o Rogers, Coleridge & White Ltd., 20 Powis Mews, London W11 1JN
“New Chicago
by Kelley Armstrong (excerpt)
(1) As Cole hurried along River Street, the cries of the peddlers changed. One minute they were hawking mended shirts and worn boots and the next they were selling equally worn‑out dreams and promises. “Peddlers of hope, people called them. “Predators, his brother, Tyler, said. Preying on hope, because that was the only thing the people of New Chicago had left.
(2) If Tyler caught him here, Cole would get a lecture. There was no danger of that, though, because his brother wouldn’t set foot on this part of River Street. He said it was because he didn’t want to give the hope peddlers an audience, but Cole suspected Tyler feared temptation. Walk past the peddlers and he might hear a pitch that would make him dig into his pocket for coins they couldn’t afford to spare, wagering them on the dream of a better life in New Chicago.
(3) New Chicago. The name itself rang with promise. People from across the nation fought starvation and bandits and the infected to get to the great city. When they were finally admitted, after weeks in quarantine outside, they wept. But they did not weep for joy.
(4) They’d heard that New Chicago was like the metropolises of old, clean and safe and bursting with promise. Instead they found a ravaged place with peddlers selling maps to the city they’d just left.
(5) Tyler’s dream wasn’t to leave New Chicago. He knew there was nothing better for them out there. But there was something better in here: Garfield Park. Beyond its walls was a real city— safer, cleaner, better. To get in, though, you needed money. Lots of it.
(6) As Cole passed through the hope peddlers, he noticed a group gathered in front of one booth.
(7) “—guaranteed to ward off the infected, the young woman was saying.
(8) She was about Tyler’s age—twenty‑two—and dressed in not nearly enough, given the bitter wind driving off the river. That, Cole decided, explained her crowd.
(9) “—my friend Wally, she continued, waving at a barely upright drunk beside her. “He was out there, beyond the city walls, for three days and not a single one of the infected bothered him. Why? Because he was wearing this.
(10) Cole pressed into the crowd, as if straining to see what she held. His fingers slid into a man’s bulging jacket pocket. Out came a switchblade. Then he reached into a woman’s shopping bag and nicked two bruised apples. While the crowd absently shoved him back, he tucked his winnings under his jacket. Then he backed out and continued on.
(11) This part of the market was the best for lifting and picking. There were always crowds, and there were always distracted people, most who’d just finished their shopping farther up.
(12) If Tyler found out what Cole was doing, he’d get another lecture, this one about empathy. If they started stealing from other people, they were no better than the infected. But life here was a battle, and only the strongest would survive. Tyler knew that. He worked for Russ McClintock, the most feared man in New Chicago. Tyler wanted better for Cole, though. He always had. So he pretended he slung boxes and cleaned warehouses for McClintock, and Cole pretended he spent all day reading the books Tyler brought home. And both brothers slowly added to the small fortune they’d need to buy their way into Garfield Park.
(13) Cole was moving slowly past the peddlers’ booths, as if reluctantly being pulled along by some other task. You had to act as if you were just passing through so you didn’t catch the attention of the peddlers themselves, who hated anyone stealing from their marks before they could.
(14) Cole came through every other day and picked only four or five pockets before moving on. It helped that he was small for his sixteen years, average looking and clean. The “clean part counted for a lot in New Chicago. Good water was so hard to come by, but Russ McClintock liked his employees to be shaven and scrubbed—it lifted them above the riffraff. So he had plenty of reasonably clean water, and he let Tyler bring Cole around for baths, in expectation of recruiting him someday.
(15) Cole was almost through the hope peddlers when he caught sight of something interesting. A man from Garfield Park. You could tell because his clothing didn’t look like it had been mended more than a time or two. Cole’s gaze slipped to the man’s right jacket pocket. It gaped open, ready for the picking. Unfortunately, the man looked uncomfortable here, his gaze darting about. Not an easy mark.
(16) The man finally found what he was looking for—an older man with a dragging leg, cheeks patchy with graying stubble, eyes dull with the “New Chicago look, that empty gaze, expecting nothing. When the old man saw the guy from Garfield Park, he lifted a hand in greeting. The rich man’s eyes narrowed, as if thinking the old guy looked vaguely familiar. Then he nodded and approached. They exchanged a few words and headed toward an alley. Cole followed.
(17) He knew his way through the alleys around the market. Now, seeing where the two men were going, he skirted down a side road and came out near the end of their alley.
(18) “I remember you had an interest in special items, Mr. Murray, the older man was saying, his voice a hoarse rumble. “A scholarly interest.
(19) “If you summoned me here to sell me some cheap bauble—
(20) “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Murray. I know you’re a very busy man. This is something special. I’m told it’s well known in certain circles.
(21) “Everything is well known in certain circles, Murray snapped. “And almost all of it is as worthless as that crap they’re hawking out there, so if—
(22) “It’s a monkey’s paw.
(23) Silence. Cole inched toward the corner.
(24) “A what? Murray said finally.
(25) Fabric rustled, as if the older man was pulling something from his pocket. Cole leaned around the corner. He could see the old man holding something, but he couldn’t make out what it was.
(26) “There’s a legend— the old man began.
(27) Now it was Murray cutting him short. “I’ve heard it.
(28) “Three wishes. They say the paw grants three wishes.
(29) Murray snorted. “If it did, you wouldn’t be here trying to sell it to me.
(30) “I . . . made mistakes, the old man said. “I didn’t know you need to be very, very careful what you ask for. The gentleman who gave me the paw tried to explain, but I heard only the part about the wishes. He was a wealthy man I’d helped, as I used to help you. He wanted to help me in return. So he gave me this. He told me to take care, but I didn’t listen and I used up my wishes.
(31) “And now you want to sell it to me?
(32) The old man shook his head. “Not sell. Give it away, as it was given to me. That’s only right. You helped me, Mr. Murray, and I never thought I’d be able to properly thank you. But now I can.
(33) “If you expect me to believe—
(34) “Then don’t. It is, as I said, freely given. At worst, it would make an amusing addition to your collection.
(35) Murray snorted again, but he dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of bills. He took the paw. When the old man didn’t reach for the bills, Murray let them drop. Then he walked away.
(36) Cole ducked back as Murray passed, but the man was busy shoving the paw into his pocket.
(37) Cole looked down the alley. The old man was walking away. He’d left the bills on the ground.
(38) Cole slid soundlessly down the alley. When he reached the bills, the old man looked over his shoulder. Cole froze. He could easily scoop up the money and run, but too many of his brother’s teachings had stuck and instead he pointed down.
(39) “You dropped those, sir.
(40) “Take them, the old man said.
(41) Cole hesitated, but the man seemed serious. Cole supposed Tyler would say it was the principle of the thing. The old man had tried to repay a debt, and if Murray was too uncouth to accept the gift, that was his problem.
(42) “Thanks, Cole said. “Here.
(43) He tossed one of his apples. The old man caught it and nodded, unsmiling. Then he continued on, dragging his bad leg behind him. Cole scooped up the cash and took off after Murray.
(44) Cole wanted that paw. He didn’t believe it had any special properties. There was no magic in this world. He wanted it because it would amuse Tyler. He’d tease Cole about it every time his little brother complained. You miss Pepsi and burgers, bud? Why don’t you ask the paw? Just be sure to ask carefully, or you’ll get rat and piss.
(45) Lately, making his brother laugh practically took magic. Hell, most people hadn’t found much to laugh about in ten years. Not since H2N3.
(46) Then the reports started coming in. Gangs of ordinary people roaming the streets, attacking passersby for pocket change. People on the subway being murdered for a sandwich or a cup of coffee. The victims who survived reported that it was like being savaged by a wild animal—clawing and biting and ripping. Then those who’d been bitten began to change, to become like their attackers.
(47) “It was a zombie apocalypse, people said, “just like in the movies. Which was crap. Cole had seen a zombie movie once, sneaking in when Tyler’s friends brought one over. The infected were not zombies. They hadn’t died; they weren’t rotting. They’d just changed. They’d become feral—that’s the word Tyler used. Whatever stops a hungry person from attacking a kid for an apple, that’s what the infection robbed from its victims.
(48) Ten years later, most of the population was infected. The rest had retreated to fortified cities like New Chicago. If there was any real hope left, it was that eventually the infected would annihilate themselves out there. But they sure weren’t hurrying to do it. In the cities, things weren’t much better, as the increasing shortage of food and clean water meant that you could still lose your life over an apple, murdered by a regular person who needed it to survive.
(49) In a world like that, if you could do something to lighten someone’s spirits, you did it. So Cole wanted that paw for Tyler.
(50) When Cole caught up, Murray was holding it again, looking down on it with distaste, as if he wanted to be rid of the thing.
(51) Just toss it in the trash, Cole thought. Or in the gutter.
(52) Murray paused outside a soup shop. The smell made Cole’s mouth water, but even with those bills in his pocket, he wasn’t tempted. Before Tyler worked for these shops—killing rats down at the river and digging rotted vegetables out of the market trash. That’s what you could expect from prepared food in New Chicago.
(53) Murray didn’t seem to know that. The rich scent of hot soup caught his attention, and he followed it to the shop door. Then he paused and fingered the paw.
(54) It’s dirty. Filthy, Cole thought. You’ll need to wash before you eat now. Just get rid of it.
(55) Murray shoved the paw into his pocket and walked inside.
(56) In the old days, this place wouldn’t have been considered a shop at all, much less a restaurant. Cole remembered restaurants. Fast food ones mostly. Sometimes, now, he’d wake thinking he smelled fries and it would set him in a lousy mood all day. Tyler would tease that, of all the things you could miss, fried potatoes should rank near the bottom. But they both knew it wasn’t really the fries—it was the idea that you could walk into a big, gleaming restaurant, scrub your hands with free soap and water, and order hot, safe food for less than half the twenty bucks your dad gave your brother when he decided to take you to the park that morning.
(57) This soup shop would have fit in one of those fast-food restrooms. Hell, it probably had been the restroom for this place, once a big department store, the top two floors now destroyed in the bombings, the remainder divvied up into a score of tiny, dark “shops. There were certainly no tables or chairs. You pushed your way up to the counter, got your soup, and pushed your way to a spot to eat it, standing. You could take it outside, but with November winds blowing through threadbare clothes, Cole suspected most patrons didn’t even really want the soup—it just gave them a chance to squeeze in someplace warm.
(58) Murray would take his soup and go—Cole could tell that by the contemptuous gazes the man shot around him. He even seemed to be reconsidering whether he wanted to remain long enough to get a meal. Cole had to act fast. He slid up behind Murray and got into position. Then, when a man left the counter, jostling and elbowing through the crowd, Cole knocked into Murray.
(59) Murray spun on him, scowling.
(60) “Sorry, Cole said.
(61) He offered a chagrined smile. Murray muttered something, turned, and pushed his own way through the crowd, stalking out.
(62) Cole watched him go. Then he glanced down at the paw in his hand. He smiled, shoved it deep into his pocket, and made his way out.
(63) Tyler was in a foul mood, which was rare. It was usually Cole who grumbled while Tyler soldiered through. Today was different. Cole knew that as soon as he saw the candle burning.
(64) Tyler often joked that they had a penthouse apartment. Not only was it on the top floor, but they even had a second story. The roof had been blasted off, so their upper floor was four walls with no ceiling. Those walls, though, cut most of the wind and they could spend the daylight hours up there and save their candles and lantern oil. If Tyler was staying on the first floor and burning a candle mid‑afternoon, something was wrong.
(65) “Where were you? Tyler demanded as Cole crawled in.
(66) His brother was sitting on a chair—actually a crate, but they called them chairs. He was playing solitaire with a worn deck, slapping the cards down onto another crate, this one known as “the dining room table.
(67) “Just walking. Getting some air.
(68) “Did you finish your schoolwork?
(69) “I read three chapters in history and two of Moby-Dick. I also swept and emptied the piss bucket, as you can see—and smell.
(70) Tyler sighed and gathered up the cards. “Sorry, bud. Rough day.
(71) “I see that. Catch.
(72) He tossed Tyler the remaining apple. The corners of his brother’s mouth quirked. “Thanks. He started to take a bite and stopped. “Do you have one?
(73) “Already ate it.
(74) “Are you sure? You need more fruits and vegetables. I—
(75) “I ate one, Ty. Go ahead.
(76) His brother worried that poor diet was the reason Cole was so small. He doubted it. He remembered kindergarten—his only year of school before the world went to hell. He’d been the smallest kid there, too. But Tyler still worried. Some days, Cole thought that was the only thing keeping his brother going— worries and problems and the faint hope that he could fix them.
(77) Tyler didn’t ask where the apple came from. Cole was in charge of the money and the shopping. Tyler considered it a practical application of his math lessons, which made it easy for Cole to sneak extra cash into the kitty and put extra food on the table.
(78) Tyler took a bite of the apple, snuffed out the candle, and waved for them to go upstairs, where they pulled pillows and thick old blankets out of a box. Cushioned and bundled against the cold, they rested, enjoying the faint warmth of the late‑ day sun.
(79) “So what happened at work? Cole asked.
(80) Tyler paused and then looked over. “When you were out, did you hear anything? Rumors? News?
(81) “Like what?
(82) Another pause, longer now, until Cole pressed.
(83) “They say one of the infected got in, Tyler said.
(84) “Again? What’s that? Third time this month?
(85) “Yeah. It’s getting worse. They always catch them, but the fact that they’re getting in . . . Tyler shook his head. “Just . . . be careful, okay? When you’re out?
(86) “I always am.
(87) After a moment, Tyler asked, “So, how much money do we have so far?
(88) He said it casually, just an offhand question, but Cole knew it wasn’t offhand at all. This was what was really bothering his brother—that the situation in New Chicago seemed to worsen so much faster than their stash grew.
(89) “Four hundred and sixty‑eight dollars to go, Cole said. Tyler swore.
(90) “We’ll make it, Cole said. “Less than a year, I bet.
(91) “I used to earn that much in a month, mowing lawns. Then I’d blow it on video games and movies.
(92) “We’ll get there.
(93) Silence fell for at least five minutes. Then, without looking over, Tyler said, “We have enough to get you in.
(94) “No.
(95) “But we could—
(96) “No. We go together, or we stay together. If you want to make money faster, let me work. McClintock offered me a job—
(97) “No.
(98) “But if I was working, we’d have enough by—
(99) “No.
(100) And there was the impasse. Cole wouldn’t go without Tyler, and Tyler wouldn’t let him work for McClintock. Cole’s “job was studying. There were real careers in Garfield Park, like in the old days—doctors and businessmen and teachers. Most kids Cole’s age couldn’t even read and write. That would give him an advantage, Tyler said. Cole couldn’t see how taking a few months off would make much difference, but he knew it wasn’t really about that. It was about Cole staying away from McClintock and the life he offered.
(101) “We’ll get there, Cole said.
(102) Tyler tried for a smile, pushed to his feet, and rumpled his brother’s hair. “I know we will. I’m just in a mood. I need to go back to work. Big job tonight. It’ll be late.
(103) “I’ll lock up.
(104) Tyler laughed. “Yeah. You do that. And see if you can’t get another couple of chapters read before the light’s gone.
(105) It was only after Tyler left that Cole remembered the paw. He was sitting there, trying to come up with other ways to make money, when he remembered it. Even then, he didn’t think “I can wish for money! He wasn’t that stupid. Instead, he took it out, turned it over in his hands, and wondered how much he could get for it.
(106) You could just wish for the money, he imagined Tyler saying.
(107) His brother would laugh when he said it, but there’d be a little piece that wouldn’t be laughing. A piece that would be hoping, even if he’d never admit it. Tyler would make that wish, just in case.
(108) Cole chuckled softly to himself as he fingered the mangy fur. “All right, then. I wish—
(109) No, the old man said he had to be careful. Be specific.
(110) Cole closed his eyes. “I wish for five hundred dollars.
(111) He sat there, clutching the paw. It felt familiar, and it took him a moment to realize why. Because it reminded him of another paw he’d had once—a rabbit’s foot that he’d insisted on buying on their last family road trip before H2N3 hit. His lucky rabbit’s foot. He’d carried it everywhere for a month and then stuffed it away in a drawer. The last time he’d seen it, he’d been making a wish. Clutching it and praying that the bite on his mother’s arm hadn’t infected her. Praying she’d walk out of the quarantine ward and come home and see the rabbit’s foot, laugh, and say, “Good god, Cole. Do you still have that flea‑bitten old thing?
(112) Of course, she hadn’t come out. She’d been infected, so they put her down.
(113) Put down.
(114) They had a dog once that had to be put down. It wasn’t the same thing.
(115) When Cole opened his eyes, he could feel tears prickling. He swiped them away with a scowl and then turned that scowl on the monkey’s paw.
(116) Yeah, you’ll make me some money all right. As soon as I figure out how to sell you.
From Rags & Bones by Melissa Marr, copyright © 2013. Reprinted by permission of Little, Brown, an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc