Page 159 of Famine

“That’s your bed,” the Reaper says.

Calling this blanket abedis giving it far too much credit, but that’s cute of him anyway.

“I’m used to sharing,” I reply.

In the lamplight, our eyes meet, and last night silently plays itself out in our minds. Famine still hasn’t moved.

“Don’t make this weird,” I say. “Nothing’s changed between us.”

The horseman gives me a sharp look, one that makes my stomach dip, but he does move onto the blanket, sitting across from me.

Seconds pass and that gravity is still in his gaze, like he is swimming in deep, deep water and he wants to drag me under with him.

I turn my attention to the house around us, listening to the steady drip of rain.

“Sleepovers in derelict buildings are kind of our thing,” I say, softly.

“Mmm.”

I drop my gaze back to Famine, and damnit, he’s still looking at melike that.

“Stop it,” I whisper.

“Stop what?” he says, not looking away from me.

Stop making me feel lighter than air and heavier than iron. Stop sucking me under.

“Nothing’s changed between us,” I insist. I don’t know how I manage to say that lie in a normal voice.

The Reaper smiles at me then, his expression wry, like I’m the naïve one and he’s the one with the worldly experience.

I glance away, unable to hold his gaze. I’m desperate for a distraction. Anything that might make me forget I’m incurably attracted to him.

My eyes land on the oil lamp. It’s nothing more than a shallow bowl with a little pinched lip for the wick. That’s all the light we have to talk by tonight.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

Rather than responding, the Reaper waits for me to continue.

“Why did everything fail?”

I can tell that’s not the question he was expecting. He was expecting a question aboutus, but hell no am I going to ask him something that will force me to confront my feelings for him.

“You mean human technology?” he asks.

I nod.

There are junkyards full of rusted automobiles and appliances and televisions and computers and those cute little cellphones people used to carry. There are landfills full of other things too—things that I don’t even have proper names for, things that once worked but no longer do. I’m too young to have seen cars drive and planes fly and machines wash clothes and chill food. It all sounds like witchcraft.

Maybe that’s why it all failed—I don’t think God is a big fan of witchcraft.

“It all failed because humans got carried away,” the horseman replies. “You were all naughty children who didn’t listen when God told you in His quiet way to stop,” Famine says idly. “So now He’s being loud about it.”

“Is that why is God punishing us?” I ask. “Because we were too … innovative?” I’ve heard of a lot of sins; I didn’t realize curiosity was one of them.

“God isn’t punishing you,” Famine replies smoothly. “Iam. God is merely balancing the scales—so to speak.”

“Because we invented too many things?” I ask.

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