Page 4 of Embers

If I’d seen him around anywhere else, I’d have stayed safely clear of him.

“It wasn’t half the water. I was doing fine.”

“You’re gonna have to do a lot better if you want to make it out here. You’re way too soft. You’ve had it too easy.”

I almost choke on my outrage. “Easy? You think my life has been easy?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but I’m suddenly so mad I don’t let him.

Instead, I really let him have it. “I never knew my dad. My mom and I barely scraped by. She worked all the time, so I had to cook and clean and do everything in the house all by myself ever since I was six years old. I never had any friends until Derek. I never had anyone but my mom. And she died. You think it’s been easy for us trying to scavenge around for enough food to make it for the past year while you’ve been up here by yourself with your chickens and your pigs and all your gross clutter, leaving your own son to fend for himself?”

I’m not a spontaneous person or an incautious one. I’ve learned to be watchful, careful. Keep my thoughts to myself. It’s always been safer that way. That’s one of the reasons I never had any friends. I grew up reluctant to trust other people. I have no idea why I spit all that out at Cal now—at the worst possible moment.

I blink, genuinely surprised by my outburst.

He raises his thick eyebrows slightly, so maybe he’s surprised too. “I know you haven’t had it easy. No one has. And for what it’s worth, I wanted to do more. I asked Derek’s mom every fucking month if I could help, and she always refused. None of that matters anymore. You don’t seem to understand how much worse it’s gonna get.”

I can’t stand this man. I actually want to scratch his mangy beard off his face, which isn’t a feeling I’m used to. But for some reason, I still believe what he says. “How much worse can it get?” I’m genuinely horrified by the idea of the world getting uglier and more difficult than it is right now.

“It’s only been a year, girl. It’s gonna get so much worse than this.” He eyes me up and down from my worn sneakers to my long, dark braid. “You’re too soft. You’re gonna have to toughen up.”

I suck in another indignant breath, but he doesn’t give me a chance to tell him what I think this time. He turns on his heel and starts toward the house, pausing to ask over his shoulder, “How long’s he had that cough?”

My stomach drops with a slow dread that’s familiar to me now. “Months. It’s not getting any better.”

With a jerky nod, Cal strides away.

His legs are long, and his shoulders are broad. He seems to fill up all the space around him, making it feel crowded even outside. His face and hair need washing. His hands are twice as big as mine. He can’t talk without cursing, and I’ve never seen him crack a smile.

He should be nothing but my boyfriend’s deadbeat dad. Instead, he’s the only thing keeping me alive.

2

Year Two after Impact, Summer

Eight months later,I’m pumping water out of the well again. I can do it easily now, and lately it’s one of my only excuses for going outside.

Derek is sick and getting sicker, so nearly all my time is spent in the small, dark cabin, taking care of him.

The same lung disease that killed his mother is going to kill him too. I’ve seen the signs coming for a long time, and he’s had no brief improvements or better days for months now.

Derek is my only friend. My only family. The only boy I’ve ever kissed. And he’s going to die before we have any sort of future.

Before we can do anything at all.

I don’t cry about it anymore. I don’t cry about anything. I go through each day, focusing only on whatever I can to make Derek comfortable and trying not to dread or even imagine what might happen to me after he dies.

It’s not any way to live, but I can’t do anything else.

I’ve got the container halfway filled with water, but Cal shows up out of nowhere, nudges me out of the way, and starts pumping the big handle for me. I’m stronger now than I was—because I’ve been doing more manual labor here and eating a healthier diet—but Cal is still twice my size, so trying to maintain my hold on the pump is a losing battle.

“I had it fine.”

“I was walking by.” He’s been out for the day and must have just gotten back. I didn’t hear his truck or motorcycle approaching, but he doesn’t always drive. I don’t know where he goes or what he does while he’s gone, but he invariably comes back with food or supplies.

Not much, but enough for the three of us.

Cal is wearing old jeans that don’t want to stay up and a stained T-shirt with the arms torn off, revealing all the crisscrossed scars down his left arm. He’s sweating, and there’s a smudge on his cheek, like he wiped at his face with unwashed hands. It’s supposed to be summer right now, but it’s not nearly as hot as summer should be. The layer of dust in the atmosphere blocks too much of the sun, so all we’re left with is thick, dirty air and gray, dank, sunless days.

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