Hope for the Best E-Book

Vanessa Lafleur

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Will Lareina find her family before it’s too late? A pandemic, a broken foster care system, and harsh living conditions. Teenagers without families have a lot to fear in the world of 2090. Lareina risks her life to protect a mysterious pendant.
Hope for the best, but don't expect it just to happen.
A pandemic, a broken foster care system, and harsh living conditions. Teenagers without families have a lot to fear in the world of 2090. Seventeen-year-old Lareina also has to worry about the oddly shaped pendant she swore to protect and the Detective chasing her to take it.
On her journey from San Antonio, Texas to Maibe, Nebraska, Lareina meets Nick and Aaron who are both facing their own struggles to survive. Together they fight to overcome hostile weather, manipulative leaders, dangerous cities, and their distrust of each other.
Can Lareina escape the past and learn the meaning of friendship and family before it’s too late?

Leseprobe

Hope for the Best

© 2020 Vanessa Lafleur. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

(an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company, Inc.)

www.bqbpublishing.com

978-1-945448-61-4 (p)

978-1-945448-62-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020932095

Book Design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover Design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

First editor: Olivia Swenson

Second editor: Caleb Guard

CONTENTS

Part One Summer of 2090

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part 2 Fall of 2090

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part 3 Winter of 2090

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

About the Author

Chapter 1

The northernmost part of the city stood impossibly still in a motionless state of decay. Another storm crawled along the horizon waiting for the perfect moment to attack with torrential rain and destructive winds. Dark, disintegrating buildings lined both sides of the street in what at one time had been a busy business district. Walls bowed toward the littered street, roofs sagged and crumbled onto rotting floors, and the windows that weren’t boarded up stared out as empty voids of darkness, sightless eyes that offered the false hope of a place to hide, to rest, to think.

Lareina’s worn tennis shoes slapped rhythmically against cracked concrete. Resilient, creeping weeds reached for her ankles, while heavy, thudding bootsteps echoed between the buildings, urging her forward and strengthening her determination to elude Detective Galloway. She didn’t bother to glance over her shoulder; she already knew he barreled toward her, not catching up, but not slowing down either.

Over the past week, she had run from one end of the city to the other in an attempt to circumvent the detective. To her advantage, she had spent two years living on the streets of San Antonio, and her knowledge of the city gave her an edge in the high-stakes game of hide-and-seek. She knew what time of the day she could avoid bystanders, where she could lose Galloway in a crowd of people, and places she could hide when caught off guard.

Empty storefronts blurred by in a rush of faded color. Gusty winds whistled through spaces between the damaged buildings, plastering her long hair over her eyes and blurring her vision. Although these challenges didn’t slow her down, outrunning the detective wasn’t an option. Three of her strides equaled one of his, and although she was quick, endurance to continue at that pace wasn’t on her side.

Only hours earlier she’d woken up, warm and comfortable, to the sound of soft rain on the roof of the public library. It was her second Galloway-free day, and she was starting to think maybe she’d lost him. Luckily, she had planned her escape routes ahead of time and managed to climb through a basement window. It had given her a head start, but not enough to escape the detective permanently.

Lungs burning, legs aching, heart racing, Lareina knew she needed to stop and rest, if only for five minutes. Abruptly, she made a right turn into an alley that cut between the buildings to the next block, dodging overturned trash cans, empty crates, and split bags of trash years overdue for collection. Feeling lightheaded, she searched the alley for a dark corner, a crevice in the wall, or anything to hide under. Up ahead, a chest-high chain-link fence divided the alley in half.

On the other side of the fence, cluttered with old mattresses, dumpsters, and other unidentified rotting debris, she spotted her chance to hide, to rest, to lose the detective. Gasping for air, she propelled herself over the fence, darted down the alley, and squeezed herself into the space between a crumbling brick wall and a disintegrating mattress.

Heart knocking against her chest as frantically as a wild bird caught in a net, she forced herself to breathe in short, silent gulps. She raised her hand to her chest and outlined the shape of the strange pendant that hung from a chain around her neck, concealed beneath her t-shirt. She pictured the pendant’s polished black surface with white letters S-PE-R-O across the bottom. Absentmindedly, she traced the smooth, flat object. A slanted edge led to a rounded arch at the bottom, then back to a second slanted edge that ended in a point joining it to the first. Sometimes it reminded her of a teardrop and sometimes a slice of pizza, depending on her mood.

She didn’t know what it was, only that Galloway wanted it more than anything. Poor Susan’s last garbled plea echoed in her head: Protect the pendant. Never let anyone . . . know . . . find . . . warn him. The girl had gasped those last words as a wound to her abdomen turned green grass red. She died because of the pendant now dangling icily against Lareina’s skin.

Escape Detective Galloway, and you’ll be free, she reminded herself. Then you can find out what the pendant is and either throw it into the river or sell it for all it’s worth. The musty smell of the old wet mattress stifled her sinuses. Pinching her nose so she wouldn’t gag or cough, she pushed a strand of long black hair away from her face and tugged at the side seam of her jeans, which were three inches too long for her short stature. Crouched on the soggy ground, she listened to a cricket chirp, flinched with each drip of cold water against her arm, and squeezed her eyes shut.

During her two-day library reprieve, she had forestalled her longing to get lost in the world of a book and instead had gathered every book on jewelry in the library’s catalog. She read up on valuable pendants made of diamonds, rubies, and pearls. She read about costume jewelry meant to imitate its more expensive counterpart. She flipped through picture after picture, so many she felt sure she could distinguish a real diamond necklace from a fake, but nothing resembling her pendant appeared in the books. According to all of her research, it couldn’t be valuable. It couldn’t be worth a week of Galloway’s time to retrieve, but still, he found her.

Water dripped onto her back and she shrugged in response to the tingling sensation. She wished she had spent time reading books about falling in love, traveling the world, winning a war—anything but jewelry. Her research had been pointless, and in her seventeen years of life she had barely begun to read the millions of books in existence. The realization that she might never read another book, that she might never walk out of the alley, crashed over her like an immense wave, pulling her under and preventing her from ever reaching the surface. She couldn’t remain still much longer and, more importantly, couldn’t let Galloway win.

Resting her cheek against a brick wall, she noticed red powder around her feet, accumulating as the manmade stone crumbled over time. Leave San Antonio? It was no longer an option but a requirement for survival. She felt no attachment to the city; there was no building she called home, and there were no people she would miss. It was too easy for Galloway to find her there, but if she kept running until those familiar streets disappeared behind her, she could vanish into the population of any city she chose.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel alley and her muscles tensed.

One step. Two steps. Three.

What will happen if he gets the pendant?

Four. Five.

How does he keep finding me?

Six steps. Seven.

If he sees me, I’m trapped.

She tilted her head to the left and spotted his oversized black boot through the gap between the mattress and the wall. Holding her breath she gripped the pendant tightly in one hand. She could keep herself still and her breathing quiet, but nothing could calm her desperate thoughts.

Galloway glided past the mattress, sending pebbles splashing into the puddles behind him. “I know you’re here. Come on out and I won’t hurt you.” He glanced up and down the alley, walked another six feet, and flipped up the lid of a dumpster with a bang. He peered inside, glanced around again, then lowered himself into a push-up position and surveyed the space beneath.

Knowing he wouldn’t leave an inch of the alley unsearched, Lareina slipped out of her hiding place and edged along the cold brick that made up one side of the alley, back toward the fence she jumped minutes earlier. Each shuffle step pushed her further away from her hiding place, out into the open, and visible to the detective if he turned around. Her only comfort came from the sight of his back moving away from her. She wanted noise to muffle her footsteps, but Galloway searched silently as he peered into crevices and behind piles of debris.

Holding her breath, she tiptoed backward with one arm stretched behind her, feeling for the fence as she inched away from the detective. A deafening crunch echoed through the alley.

Looking down at her feet, she cringed and lifted her shoe off a long-ago discarded plastic bottle. Galloway froze at the far end of the alley. She froze too, unable to take her eyes off the back of his head. Don’t turn around. She mouthed the words in a silent prayer, unwilling to make another sound. A crow cawed in the distance, a breeze ruffled the trash spilling out of rotted plastic bags, and time didn’t move.

Galloway’s voice floated down the alley before he turned cautiously. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He held his hands out, palms down in front of him as if trying not to startle a deer. “I don’t care about all of the things you’ve stolen. Just give me the pendant and you’re free.”

“Is that what you told Susan?” She slid one foot back across the gravel.

“Yes, but she wouldn’t listen, and the people I work for aren’t patient.” He took a step forward. “I can’t waste any more time chasing that thing.”

“Since when do you work for other people?” Her feet twitched inside of her shoes. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s complicated.” His shoulders sagged slightly as if to prove the weight of his problem, but his lips tightened into a straight line. “I got mixed up in something I want to get out of. You have to believe me when I tell you that thing won’t make you any money. It’ll only bring you misery.”

“Then why do these people you’re working for want it?” Her hands clenched and unclenched. Every muscle twitched in preparation to run.

“It’s a matter of national security.” His hand lowered toward his belt.

Springing backward, she leaped for the fence, and caught the top edge with her foot, enough to propel her over. She hit the ground with a splash and sprinted back toward the street with Galloway trailing a half block behind her.

She tore down the littered road, hurdling a couch left by looters and darting past a half-collapsed building that spilled bricks onto the sidewalk. Only one more block and she would see the bridge that would link her to an abandoned neighborhood. A quick dash across overgrown soccer fields would give her the advantage of rows and rows of houses offering endless places to hide and a chance of losing Galloway. Glancing behind her she noticed the detective keeping pace but not getting any closer.

Feet sliding across gooey mud, she skidded to a stop. Right in front of her, where the bridge should have been, a rushing river swallowed her only link to freedom. Chunks of concrete had eroded from the edge of the bridge, and only the flat top of the guardrail stood above the water. It trembled in the middle where it had lost its concrete anchor. Torrential rains of the past week combined with above-normal rainfall over the summer had led to extreme flooding throughout the state.

Stepping forward into the current, she gripped the guardrail as knee-deep water threatened to sweep her off her feet. Just ahead, white torrents cascaded across the surface, foaming as they caught on submerged concrete barriers. The bridge shook, quickly being overpowered by the flood’s tremendous force.

Another glance back revealed Detective Galloway lumbering ever closer. If she didn’t move, he would capture her; if she didn’t hurry, the bridge would be gone. Shivering, she hoisted herself onto the four-foot guardrail that once stood between people on the sidewalk and the trickle of a creek below. Ignoring her trembling hands, she stood up and swayed from side to side.

It’s just like the balance beam on a playground, or walking along the top of a retaining wall, she tried to convince herself. Galloway shouted behind her, but she couldn’t make sense of what he said over the roaring water—or was that the sound of blood pumping in her ears? She slid one foot in front of the other. Although only thirty yards ahead, the bank of the creek seemed a mile away as she struggled to maintain her balance.

“Have you lost your mind?” Galloway’s voice came so clearly through the deafening rush of water that she worried he had followed her onto the rail. “You’ll get yourself killed out there.”

The guardrail bounced beneath her and groaned with every step as she crossed the unsupported middle section. As she attempted to turn her head toward the detective, her left foot slid partially down the side of the thin beam. Flailing her arms, she leaned far to the right and managed to find her balance again.

“You have to move,” she whispered over the roar of water. “You can’t stay here.”

Shaking, she looked down at the water lapping fiercely two feet below her shoes. She took a deep breath and stepped forward.

Chapter 2

Never had Lareina known relief like reaching the end of that guardrail. Leaping as far from the edge of the water as possible, she sank shin deep into mud along the saturated creek, but she didn’t care. She would have one more day of freedom and one more day to live.

Turning around, she spotted Galloway standing, hands pressed against the top of his head, across the water. Another chunk of the bridge collapsed and the guardrail bobbed wildly. He made no attempt to come after her. His eyes, surrounded by puffy eyelids and dark circles, scrutinized the scene as his lips stretched into a thin flat line.

“Your precious pendant is safe.” She stood tall as she shouted at him, the adrenaline of her stunt and the reality of her freedom racing through her body. “And if you want it, you’ll have to take it because it belongs to me now.”

As she turned away from the water, she heard him yell, “I’ll find you no matter where you run. I’ll always find you.”

The threat constricted muscles in her shoulders and jaw, but instead of turning around she walked toward the promised shelter of houses on the horizon. Galloway could try to follow her, but the flooding would give her time to disappear while he looked for a way around the obstacle. Gray clouds piled in from the west, tumbling past one another and swallowing those too slow to keep up. The creek would only swell with the rain overnight, and she laughed out loud at the perfect timing of the approaching storm.

Kicking mud off her shoes, she imagined the comforts of the house she would sleep in that night. A soft pillow, somewhere dry to rest, and some clean clothes were the only luxuries she needed. In the city she slept in libraries and churches—the only places she felt safe and could be alone. All abandoned buildings in the city had been looted, but she’d heard rumors that houses outside of the city tended to be not only empty of people, but still stocked with supplies left behind by their owners.

Although the economic downturn began when she was too young to remember, she had felt its affects all her life. She guessed it was the reason her parents had abandoned her, why so many children had been left to a system unprepared to provide for their needs. Every new home for children she was sent to seemed to have less food and more orphans assigned to a room than the one before. By the time she was twelve, a fuel shortage nearly doubled the population of cities across the country. People couldn’t afford to commute far for work, and they wanted to live close to the best hospitals, restaurants, and entertainment. A few years later, when the fever started, the overpopulation of urban areas allowed it to sweep through like a wildfire.

Only six in ten survived the flu-like virus that started out as a cough and ended in a high fever. The vast majority of survivors were between the ages of ten and twenty-five. Lareina took comfort that at seventeen she fell in that age group, but still she worried she couldn’t beat such a formidable illness without anyone to take care of her. Unfortunately it didn’t show any signs of dying out, so she feared it was only a matter of time.

Cutting across overgrown playing fields, she could make out the shapes of tree houses and deteriorating trampolines behind the wood fences outlining backyards. How different would her life have been had she grown up in a house with green grass, a trampoline, parents and siblings? Maybe she would have learned to play the piano so beautifully people would have traveled miles to hear her in concert. Maybe she would have studied medicine and found a cure to the dreaded fever. She definitely wouldn’t have turned out to be the thief and fugitive she’d become.

The houses that had appeared as black silhouettes against the gray sky from across the bridge became gloomy two-story homes with dark windows. They differed in the color of their siding and the locations of chipping paint but were otherwise identical. She remembered stories of desperate homeowners unable to sell their houses located too far outside of city limits to be valuable. To protect what they had left in case their fortunes or the economy turned, they transformed their homes into burglar traps before fleeing to the city.

“They like to hide nets under the leaves,” a boy named Joe had told her once. She had been huddled around a trashcan fire under an overpass with a dozen other children who had run away from children’s homes or replacement families. The others, hardened after being on their own for years, looked at Joe with a mixture of disbelief and disregard. They knew the rules.

There is no friendship. Trust no one. Share nothing.

“Sometimes turning on the kitchen sink triggers an explosion that can take your hand right off,” Joe exclaimed. No one listened. Joe claimed to loot houses, hauling the goods into town and selling them for any profit he could make. Lareina and others like her didn’t dare leave the city, focused more on surviving the cold winter than Joe’s stories, which they considered to be nothing more than fantasies.

But only twelve then, she had listened. She had been on her own for a month. Perhaps it was that she didn’t know the rules, or the earnestness in Joe’s voice made her stop and listen. “The worst are the pits,” he told his wide-eyed audience of one. “You never see them until you’re face-first in the dirt.”

Her cautious eyes immediately noticed how the field behind the houses had rectangular sections that sunk lower than the ground around them. Some areas had completely dropped away, exposing rotted edges of blue tarp still staked into the ground above. Easing closer to the nearest backyard, she tested the ground in front of her with one foot before putting her weight on it. She didn’t believe anyone could really lack the observation skills to fall for such an obvious trap, but the uncertainty of what she might miss had kept her in the city. Now Galloway had forced her from the place where at least she knew the rules to survive.

Clouds approached, thickening, darkening, and blotting out the ever-dimming light. Ten feet to the fence, then the safety of an overgrown backyard, then the warmth of any house she chose.

A snapping sound drew her attention upward to a red- and-white striped tarp blowing in the wind. Once the roof of a treehouse, it lifted, twisted, fell, and her memory did the same. Nearly eight years earlier in a place almost a thousand miles away, she had spent summer evenings watching fireworks and fall afternoons reading books in a treehouse almost identical to the one in front of her. Although she had lived in the Maibe, Nebraska, Home for Children, she spent most of her time with Rochelle Aumont, the only friend she had ever made in her life. For that brief year, she had been given a childhood.

A mosquito hummed near her ear. She swatted it away and stepped forward.

To her left an open pit swallowed up the ground, daring any visitor to take another step. Large chunks of tarp shivered on stakes after being torn away at strategic cuts when strained under too much weight. She edged closer to investigate. Thunder rumbled in the distance as she looked into the pit.

Something orange stood out against the dull mud in gray light. When it moved she took a cautious step forward, sending little clumps of earth rolling into the hole. A boy with a dirt-smudged face and mud-speckled blond hair stared up at her.

“Hey, are you all right down there?” She leaned forward as far as she could without tumbling over the edge.

The boy scowled up at her and rolled his eyes in a way that involved his entire head. “Does it look like I’m all right?”

She shrugged and turned away from the pit, ready to find some shelter before the storm crawled any closer. Interacting with other people would only be done for necessity of survival. Trust no one. Share nothing.

“Wait.” The small voice sounded so different from the first that she had to look again to verify only one boy sat in the trap. “I’m hungry and I hurt my ankle.”

Any gruffness had fizzled from his voice and deflated from his stature. He winced as he pulled his knees up to his chin. Pathetic, terrified, and desperate. Would he die if no one else came along to help him? She imagined herself in the same situation, Galloway’s face hovering above, and shivered.

“I’ll be right back.” She turned and maneuvered through a rotted section of fence into the knee-high grass of a backyard gone wild. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you out.”

Easing around the yard to avoid any other traps, she maneuvered to the tree house she had noticed earlier. Barely visible through lush grass, hid the remnants of an old tire swing. She ripped the tire away from tangled weeds and surveyed the frayed rope attached to the end. It would have to be good enough. She hoisted the tire and walked awkwardly back to the pit as the wind picked up intensity, gusting out of the north, complementing sharp lightning that streaked through the darkening sky. Although she anticipated it, each roar of thunder sent a tremor through her body.

She set the tire down at the edge of the pit and lowered the rope. When the boy gripped the frayed end, she wrapped her arms through the tire and leaned back with all of her weight. Nothing happened.

“You’re going to have to help me,” she shouted against the wind. “Try to climb up the side.”

Hugging the tire as if it were a teddy bear, she pulled. Tension on the rope slackened and she took a step back. Inch by inch she stepped away from the pit. With one last tug, she stumbled backward and the boy sprawled onto the grass.

Lareina sat on the soggy ground, too drained and proud of her ingenuity to remember fear. She remained still, head bent forward, watching as the wind lifted strands of her long black hair.

The boy crawled toward her without letting his left ankle touch the ground. He tilted his head to the side and curly blond hair flopped over his forehead. “Are . . . are you all right?” His voice trembled with uncertainty.

She smiled and nodded. “Yeah, just resting.”

He settled next to her, injured ankle stretched in front of him, and extended his hand. “I’m Nick Ziel.”

She shook his hand politely, but an introduction didn’t come readily to her lips. Was it safe to tell this boy her name? Would he know she was a wanted fugitive? She didn’t even have a last name to give him.

Nick’s puzzled expression let her know she had hesitated too long. She nodded and smiled to buy another second, to think of the kind of person she wanted to be, then met his puzzled eyes and replied, “Nice to meet you, Nick. My name is Rochelle Aumont.”

The image of a smiling eight-year-old girl with kind green eyes flashed through her mind. Lareina had only been ten years old for a week when she said goodbye to Rochelle. The last day of the eleven months and fifteen days that she had lived in the Maibe Home for Children was one of the few times she’d cried in the past ten years. It felt wrong to steal an old friend’s name, but it was too late to change her mind. Nick let go of her hand as the first raindrops landed on her face.

“It’s starting to rain,” he complained. “We have to get up onto a porch before we get soaked.”

“What’s the rush?” She laughed. “You could use a shower anyway.”

Wide brown eyes, thin nose, and pointed chin all nodded forward to observe his clothing. A deepening frown warned her that he hadn’t appreciated the comment.

“Me? How about you?” he shot back.

She had momentarily forgotten about the muddy grime that had accumulated on the worn jeans and baggy t-shirt she had nabbed from a fire escape rail as they dried. Rain poured heavier and, for the second time in less than an hour, she decided to leave Nick on the ground and find herself shelter for the night. She had pulled him out of the trap, and now he had his freedom and could fend for himself. Standing, she started toward the house.

“Hey, you aren’t going to leave me here?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“I can barely put any weight on my ankle. I need your help,” he pleaded.

Sighing, she returned to his side, offering her hand. “Then let’s go.”

He took her hand and she pulled him to his feet. Though he stood a head taller than her, he was slighter than she first thought, and she awkwardly supported the weight his leg couldn’t as they stumbled through a deluge of water to the front porch of the nearest house. She helped him to a rotting wicker chair and tried the door. Locked, as expected, but she considered that less of a deterrent and more of an annoyance. After locating her lock picking tools in her bag, she knelt and inserted a pin into the keyhole on the doorknob.

“What are you doing?” Nick asked as she worked on the lock.

“I’m going to open this door.”

Thunder rumbled and a stiff wind splattered raindrops against their drying faces.

“You can’t do that.”

A streak of lightning momentarily lit the sky. She tried the knob. Not quite.

“Of course I can. Just give me a few more minutes.”

“No, I mean we can’t just break into someone’s house.”

She stopped working and turned to Nick. Words weren’t enough to express all she understood but he didn’t seem to comprehend. “It’s dangerous out here. We need a safe place to stay until the storm moves through.”

Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back in the chair. “I know how dangerous it is. I’ve been doing this for three weeks now.”

Lareina laughed. “You’ve been falling into pits for three weeks?”

“No, that’s the first pit I’ve fallen into.” He met her amused smile with a glare. “I mean I’ve been away from home and surviving on my own just fine.”

Ignoring him, she turned back to her task. In another minute, the lock clicked and with a light nudge, the door swung open.

“I’m not going in there.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Come on, Nick, I can see you shivering.”

“Nothing you say is going to convince me to do something illegal.” The intensity of his scowl let her know just how much he disapproved of her actions. His attitude bounced from one hemisphere of her brain to the other, gaining speed, creating heat, simmering inside her head.

“Illegal.” She spat the word back at him. “Is that going to be your last thought when you get struck by lightning? How old are you, Nick?” She forced a normal breath, kept a calm expression on her face, but felt her feet move closer to the open door.

He leaned forward. “Seventeen.”

“In that case . . .” She pointed to the dark sky beyond the porch. “There’s a storm.” She pointed into the dark interior of the house. “There’s shelter.” The wind gusted noisily, and she yelled to be heard over it. “You’re plenty old enough to make a decision.”

His scowl vanished and he looked out at the black sky as if surveying the clouds for the first time. “Fine,” he surrendered. “Let’s go inside.”

Lareina exhaled, willed her shaking hands to be still and took Nick’s arm. Once inside, she kicked the door shut with her foot, locking the storm outside. They entered a comfortable living room furnished with a blue couch and two matching recliners. It appeared untouched by the elements—no dripping ceiling or flood-saturated carpet. Through a second doorway, the kitchen greeted them, pristine and ready for someone to prepare a meal. No broken windows, no scattered possessions, undefiled by looters. Its proximity to the city should have made it one of the first targets, but perhaps it had been more recently abandoned. She shivered, thinking the family may have spent their final evening in the room where she stood only a few weeks earlier.

A low rumble in her stomach drove her thoughts back to the more immediate requirements of survival. The last meal she had eaten was early that morning and had consisted of half of one of the precious candy bars stashed in her backpack.

“Have you eaten anything today?” She helped Nick over to the kitchen table.

“No, I ran out of food yesterday, and I ran out of money last week.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Lareina laughed, then regretted expressing her opinion out loud. Nick, on first impression, came across as pathetic, naïve, and inept at staying alive, but insulting the stranger trapped under the same roof for the night constituted reckless behavior.

He pushed her arm away and sat down heavily on a chair.

Sighing, she leaned against the table. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day and I’m not so good at this.”

“At what?” Nick rolled his eyes. “Having a conversation? Have you forgotten how to talk to people or do you just think you’re above all their rules?” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand and brought it to rest on the top of his head.

Reading his mood didn’t come easy in the minutes she’d known him, but his posture slackened with his last sentence.

“I don’t dislike people.” She brushed her fingers through the knots at the ends of her hair. “I just don’t trust them. Very few of them have given me any reason to.”

Nick nodded and slouched. The suspicion in his eyes momentarily vanished, and she found her own emotions reflected in his expression: fear, uncertainty, and desperation. For the first time, she recognized their similarities. They both traveled alone, both wore dirty clothes, both hesitated to trust another human being. Each of them wandered through a broken world filled with starvation, riots, disease, and the fear of war around every corner.

“I’m sorry. I was rude before. Thank you for helping me.” He rested his cheek on the table and all of his hair shifted, hiding half of his face.

Lareina knelt next to him and rolled the left leg of his jeans up to his knee. A swollen bulge the size of a large peach replaced his ankle.

“This is going to hurt,” she warned, and pulled his shoe off before he had time to protest.

Nick cried out and clutched the seat of the chair. “What are you doing?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

Shifting the chair next to him so it faced him, she lifted his injured leg onto it. “I’m just trying to help.” She stood and walked over to the cupboards. Inside she found white plates, matching bowls, and glasses—items she expected, but not what she hoped for.

“What are you doing now?”

She crossed the room and opened the doors to a floor-to-ceiling pantry. “I’m looking for supper, and I think I found it.” Reaching into the back corner of the darkness, she pulled out a can of chicken noodle soup, a nearly empty bag of raisins, and a bottle of salad dressing. Pushing the bottle back onto the shelf, she announced, “Soup and raisins it is.”

“Mmm, something warm sounds great.” All accusation faded from his voice.

“It does,” she agreed. “Too bad no one has been paying the electric bill.”

Nick didn’t say another word as she divided the soup and raisins into separate bowls and carried them to the table. Lifting a spoonful of soup to her lips, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine warm steam tickling her face and soothing her dry throat.

He gagged after his first bite. “How old is this?”

Fantasy shattered, she opened her eyes and lowered the spoon. “What?”

“The soup. Did you look at the date on the can? It tastes like it’s been in that cupboard for half a century.” Dropping his spoon in the bowl, he slid it away.

“I don’t look at the dates. Expired food is the least of our problems.” She shrugged and swallowed another mouthful.

Eventually, he decided he was hungry enough to eat the slightly metallic tasting soup and managed to swallow it by pinching his nose. Even with that strategy, he grimaced and complained about the probability of food poisoning.

Lareina ignored him, letting her eyes drift across countertops and through a doorway leading into a dark room. The house looked huge from the outside, and she imagined four large bedrooms, all decorated with curtains and matching bedspreads, all with their own bathrooms that contained long, deep bathtubs. Bedrooms meant clothes. According to the stories, every house contained excess clothing. With her hunger satisfied, the discomfort of her sopping clothes clinging to her skin demanded her full attention.

“Where are you going?” he asked when she was halfway to the door.

“Upstairs to find some dry clothes.”

“Rochelle, this isn’t our house. All of this stuff belongs to someone else.”

The new name felt more authentic with every passing minute. She could feel herself slipping into a new life, shedding her old problems, and running toward something bright. There would be no going back, only forward. She continued toward the door. “No one’s coming back here, Nick. They’re all gone.”

Gone. All gone. Those words echoed through her head and followed her up the wide stairway. The saddest notions are those that are true. She had read that phrase in a book, but she couldn’t remember which one.

Silently, she padded across the soft carpet and into the first room at the top of the stairs. Never in her life had she encountered so much pink. The walls were painted pale pink, the bedspread matched, and even the carpet, although a darker shade, shared the color scheme. Three dolls sat on the bed and a pile of teddy bears guarded the corner.

Gliding over to the bed, she picked up a doll wearing a green dress. She had never owned a doll, or much more than the clothes on her back for that matter. The air grew thicker, heavier, almost painful to force into her lungs as she thought of the little girl who once slept in that room.

“Please let her be safe out there,” she whispered. After carefully replacing the doll exactly where she had found it, she wandered across the hall.

In the next room clothes covered the floor; sheets, pillows, and blankets spilled off the bed to add to the chaos. Two posters—one depicting a man holding a basketball and the other a guy balancing a soccer ball on his knee—covered one wall.

She pulled a t-shirt out of the closet and held it up. Perhaps a little big for Nick, she thought, but at least it’s dry. After a quick search of the room she also found a pair of sweatpants, a pair of jeans, and a clean pair of socks.

Leaving her new finds for Nick in a pile at the top of the staircase, she crossed the hall, passed a bathroom, and entered the last room. It was simple enough with white walls, beige carpet, and a green comforter on the neatly made bed. Two dressers lined one wall, but she headed to the closet. One side contained button-up shirts, black slacks, and an assortment of ties in different patterns. The other side housed skirts, slacks, blouses, and dresses hanging according to color. Selecting a pale blue dress, she held it up in front of her. She didn’t allow herself to look in the mirror because she would want to keep the dress, but it wouldn’t help her to survive. Instead, she returned it to the closet and chose a belt from a hook then reluctantly closed the door and crossed the room.

Each drawer of the dresser revealed new surprises. Jeans, t-shirts, shorts, sweaters—all stuffed the drawers so full she had to yank them open. Leaving her old clothes in a pile on the carpet, she dressed in the clean, dry t-shirt and jeans she chose from the assortment. Sitting down in front of the dressing table mirror, she picked up a brush and ran it through her tangled hair. The reflection looking back at her was exactly who she expected to see—the same long black hair, the same thin face, and the same wide brown eyes.

But I’m not Lareina anymore.

“Hello. My name is Rochelle Aumont,” she whispered. A smile formed on her lips. She liked the way the name sounded and the freedom that accompanied her new identity. The name conjured memories of warmth, the promise of family, and a forced goodbye from the only place she’d ever wanted to stay.

Would they welcome her back if they found out she became a thief and fugitive? Would they remember her eight years later? Would they even be there anymore? She closed her eyes and saw the blue-and-white stripes on the awning above the candy store, felt warm sunlight filtering through green trees in the park, smelled cookies baking at Rochelle’s house. She opened her eyes and felt a slight disappointment at finding herself back in a dark bedroom with only her reflection for company.

“I’ll go back there,” she whispered to the mirror. Rochelle would remember her—she had promised. Even if Galloway followed her outside of San Antonio, he would stop before she got to Nebraska. “I’ll be safe and warm. I’ll have a family.” A family—the one thing she couldn’t steal from the market, the one thing she wanted more than anything else. “Everything I want is out there, and it’s time for me to start running toward it.” Her mirror image smiled and nodded in agreement.

Chapter 3

To distract herself from the storm outside, Lareina explored the house. She made several trips downstairs to deliver dry clothes and then blankets to Nick. Framed photos in the hallway captivated her as she observed a family of four laughing, celebrating, and enjoying life together. The contradiction between those pictures and her own memories transformed the cozy house into a reminder of her own lack of a family.

When she came down the stairs, Nick was resting on the couch covered by a blanket. His leg rested on a pile of pillows propped up on the coffee table. His head rested against the back of the couch, eyes closed, chest rising, falling, rising, falling. After all of his protesting about stealing and breaking the law, he sat on someone else’s couch, wrapped up in someone else’s blanket, and wore someone else’s clothes. She almost felt proud.

He looked comfortable, as if he’d lived there for years, while she couldn’t be still without an uneasy feeling creeping through every cell of her body. Whether it stemmed from the storm beating against the windows or the thought that ghosts of the former occupants watched her examine their things, she couldn’t be sure.

“There doesn’t seem to be anything unusual about this house,” she announced, walking into the living room. She wanted to wake Nick, to hear another human voice that would chase away the ghosts and distract her from the clamor outside.

Nick opened his eyes and sat up straighter. “Did you hope to find something more valuable than an old can of soup?”

Sinking into a recliner, she turned sideways to see him. Why wouldn’t he—why wouldn’t anyone—expect a thief to steal at every chance presented? Nevertheless, she couldn’t prevent contempt from sliding into her voice. “No, I just wanted to get to know the people who used to live here. Curiosity isn’t a crime, Nick.”

“And rummaging through their things is polite,” he muttered.

She turned away and leaned her head against soft fabric. There had to be a way to turn the conversation toward something they could agree on. “So, what inspired you to become a runaway?”

“A runaway from what?” His voice rose in confusion with each word.

Lareina laughed and leaned forward. “The Orphan Redistribution Institution, of course. You know, ORI. You don’t have to be ashamed. I’m one of them too.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed in a way that made her want to travel back in time and avoid asking that question. A second ticked by on the wall clock, then two, then twenty.

“I’m not running away from anything and I’m not one of you.”

She slumped back in the chair and closed her eyes. The words he hadn’t vocalized—I’m better than whatever you are and you better not forget it—stung worse than any he had spoken. Tears welled in her eyes, a few of them landing in warm drops on the back of her hand. Rarely did anything make her cry, and never did she allow anyone to see her tears. Remain silent. Slow breath in, slow breath out.

After several minutes of silence, Nick cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.” Only a low rumble of thunder replied. Those words weren’t enough and she couldn’t guarantee she had control over her voice. He continued, his voice small again. “My family died last month from the fever so I decided to come to Texas and find an old friend. She’s the closest thing to family I have left.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She turned her face away from Nick, not wanting to see him cry. “It can’t be easy to be on your own so suddenly.”

A minute passed before he answered. “It’s definitely been rough, but once I find my friend everything will be okay.”

At least you have one person, she thought. And at least you know what it feels like to have a family at all. She remembered the thin file she’d walked from New Orleans to San Antonio to see. It had taken her three years to find out where she came from and locate the New Beginnings Home for Children. Two weeks passed before she convinced the director to let her see the file.

An entire lifetime of questions had tickled the tips of her fingers as she opened the tan folder. Inside she found a document listing her name and a physical description of her two-year-old self. Beneath that, a clipped newspaper article.

Toddler Discovered in Pasture

A child estimated to be two years old was discovered walking around a pasture north of town. When asked, she told authorities her name is Lareina. She hasn’t given a last name or any indication of her parents’ whereabouts. Lareina is currently in the custody of the New Beginnings Home for Children. If anyone has any information regarding the parents or guardians of this child, please contact the sheriff’s office.

The date, written in faded ink at the bottom of the page, was August 2, 2075.

She had shaken the folder, examined the description document and newspaper clipping, held them up to the light, read them each a dozen times, searched the floor around her feet, but nothing new materialized.

Her questions had no answers. Her life began at age two, if the authorities had estimated correctly. She had no birthday, no family, no last name. No one cared that she existed and no one would notice when she ceased to exist.

“I’ll be able to find her, right?” Nick’s question interrupted her disheartenment.

A flash of lightning brought the room back into focus and Lareina back into the present. For a second she wanted to tell him no, to dash his hopes, to make him feel what she felt, but she didn’t want anyone to experience such stifling isolation.

She cleared her throat but kept her face turned away from Nick. “What’s her name?”

“Ava Welch. We used to live right next door to each other in Omaha, but her family moved away a few years ago. Her dad was some kind of scientist and I think he was transferred to San Antonio.” He seemed to be talking to himself, reconstructing events from memory.

“You’re from Omaha?” she asked with interest, this time turning to face him.

“Yeah, why?”

“I used to live a few hours away from there.” Finally, something in common. “How long have you been looking for Ava?”

“Since my train got here three weeks ago.”

“You had money for a train ticket?” She sat up, forgetting about her tears.

“I had enough to get here and apparently enough for two weeks of food and supplies, but now . . .”

“I was afraid at first too, but all you get for begging is hunger, and the mosquito bites and sunburns aren’t worth sleeping outside.”

“If you’re such an expert, how long have you been a . . . runaway?” Nick sounded both annoyed and hesitant to use her terminology.

“Since I was twelve, so five years now.”

“Is living like this really better than what you’re running from?”

“The institution doesn’t pay families to host orphans in their homes, and the laws about orphan treatment aren’t enforced.” She shook her head and lowered her voice. “Replacement families make us work to repay the resources we use. For any reason, they can decide to ship you off to a home for children or another replacement family that needs temporary housekeepers and gardeners. They barely feed you, and sometimes lock you in the basement or attic so you can’t escape. I’m not any worse off now than I was then, and at least I’m free.”

A low rumble of thunder shook the house. Both of them jumped.

Lareina walked over to the window and stared out at the dark sky. She couldn’t see anything except during brief bursts of lightning. “Maybe we should have found a house with a basement.”

“It’s just a thunderstorm. Get some sleep.” Nick squirmed into position so his legs stretched across the couch and his head rested against the softest pillow from upstairs.

Back in the recliner, she pulled a light blanket up to her chin. It wasn’t really cold, but the blanket was comforting.

“Good night, Nick.”

“Good night, Rochelle.”

Despite the comfort of a warm, dry shelter, sleep didn’t come easy. She remembered trying to fall asleep in an attic in Minnesota as a storm raged outside; she remembered her first night as a runaway, sheltering in a yellow tunnel slide at the park; she remembered the thrill that energized her fingers like a superpower when she picked her first lock. She tried to remember her parents, tried to picture their faces, tried to understand how she wound up alone in a pasture, but despite the vivid memories haunting her mind, she had no memories to answer the most important questions always lapping against the edges of her brain.

The warmth of sun on her face invited Lareina to open her eyes. Sitting up inch by inch, she glanced around the room. Outside, a bright sunrise in a blue sky brightened the neighborhood. Nick slept on, a blanket tangled around his feet, pillow slipping halfway to the floor.

Based on the angle of the sun’s rays on the carpet, it was seven o’clock, no later than eight. Leaning forward, she slid slowly off the chair to avoid waking Nick.

Illuminated by daylight, the room felt small, cramped, like a trap. She tiptoed across the floor and slipped out the front door. Fluffs of cotton glittered in sunlight as they drifted on the cool breeze. Breathing in the rain-cleaned air—like cool water against sunburned skin—brought her a sense of calm and hope.

She walked down the street, past quiet houses still untouched by the decay she knew would creep in with destructive fingers. A windstorm would pry off a shingle or smash a tree branch through a window, allowing rain to drip into attics and bead across windowsills. Mold would find a home along with squirrels and raccoons. Fall breezes would send leaves skittering across kitchen counters and carefully made beds. Roofs would collapse, foundations would crack, and soon the neighborhood would be an unrecognizable heap of rotten wood and broken furniture.

Windows glinted in the morning sun, and she imagined a man stepping out to pick up his newspaper, a woman jogging down the street pushing a stroller, a car pulling out of a driveway to carry its driver to work. What should be. What would never be again.

Turning away, she let the image fade from her mind. She wanted to keep walking, to get far away, to enter the horizon glowing with sunlight that promised a never-ending day of clear travel weather. Instead she turned back, took her time walking down the street, continued through the front door of her temporary residence, and tiptoed past Nick.

In the kitchen, she found the bag of raisins, popped them into her mouth one at a time, and wondered if Galloway found a way across the torrent of water. She wondered how far he would follow her. She wondered how long she could outrun him. She wondered too many things that would spoil the gift of a sunny cool day in the middle of summer.

“Rochelle?” Nick called from the living room. She stuffed a handful of raisins into her mouth and focused on chewing. “Rochelle? Are you still here?” His voice grew louder then faded to a whimper. “Rochelle?”

She walked to the doorway carrying the bag of raisins. He sat straight up on the couch, and when his glance landed on her, he leaned back and took a breath, a glimmer of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Patches of curly hair stuck up like antennas stretching out of his skull while the rest lay smashed flat against his head.

“I thought maybe you left already.” His voice was a low hum of drowsiness and relief.

Surprised at Nick’s response to her presence, she crossed the room, sat down on the coffee table across from him, and offered the bag of raisins.

“Thanks.” He smiled and pulled out a handful.

“How’s your ankle?”

He flexed his left foot up and down then twisted it left and right. “I think it’s feeling better.”

“You think you’ll be okay to walk on it?” The muscles in her neck and shoulders slackened as the weight of obligation lifted away.

Nick chewed and swallowed a handful of raisins then reached for another. “Yeah, I’ll be all right.”

“That’s great news.” The perfect weather and uncertainty about Galloway’s whereabouts made her eager to start walking. “It’s been great meeting you, but I have to keep moving.”

“Wait, what’s the rush?” He dropped his raisins on the coffee table and swung his legs off the couch. His uncombed hair and wide eyes made him look like a frightened child.

“I have friends expecting me.” She’d never see Nick again—what would it matter if he knew the truth? But she heard the hesitation in her voice and immediately regretted it.

“What are you running from?” Concern spilled out of his voice. Concern for her safety or his own?

“I’m running from a detective,” she admitted.

Leaning away from her, he pushed deep into the cushions as if he couldn’t get far enough away. “I should have known,” he whispered. “What did you do?”

Lareina rolled her eyes. “I didn’t do anything.”

He folded his arms across his chest and studied her. “I don’t believe you.”

“You shouldn’t. But don’t worry about it. I’m leaving and you’ll never see me again.” She picked up her backpack, secured both straps over her shoulders, and was halfway to the front door before Nick spoke.

“Wait, Rochelle. Maybe we could travel together for a while. Where are you headed?”

“I’m going north.” She didn’t want to leave him with any specific information in case Galloway interviewed him, and she certainly didn’t want him tagging along.

“Oh,” he sighed. Was he disappointed? “I have to stick around San Antonio to find Ava.”

“We’re going in opposite directions.”

“I guess so. Are you sure you’ll be all right out there, all alone?”

Sun splashed across the top of the couch, growing brighter, warmer, urging action while it lasted. Her foot tapped lightly against the floor, matching the staccato rhythm of the clock, reminding her of time slipping through her fingers like water. Would she be okay? She hadn’t been the one to fall into a trap.

But also . . . had anyone ever cared whether she would be all right?

“I can take care of myself.” She took another step toward the door. “Will you be okay?”

Nick nodded and looked down at his ankle, his face slightly red from a lingering sunburn she hadn’t noticed the night before. He had no food, less money, and his will to survive wasn’t strong enough to justify stealing.

Shrugging her bag off her shoulders, she caught it by the strap, reached inside and fished out three of her six candy bars. The ones she had planned to save for her most desperate moment of starvation. She could manage.

“Here.” She held out the candy, golden wrappers glinting.

His eyes shifted, eyebrows raised, mouth opened, and she could see the protest rising within him, but just as abruptly it faded. He reached out and accepted the candy bars.

“Thanks. I really couldn’t have made it without your help.” Nick forced a smile and Lareina replaced her bag. She met his glance and matched his smile, then turned away and passed through the door without looking back.

Down the front walk, up the street, one block, two blocks, three, six. Distance makes goodbye easier, she told herself as she started north toward Austin. Sometimes on stormy days she had sat in the library looking through books of maps, plotting routes to a new life. She hadn’t been brave enough to leave San Antonio in the two years since she’d arrived there searching for her family. Another city would offer food and shelter, voices and sounds. She could find a job, make some money, and forget about Galloway as she prepared to travel north to the only people she knew cared about her.