Page 12 of Starve
“Fucker,” Cairo mutters unexpectedly, though immediately his attention is back on me. “This place could be worse.” He offers me a tiny, mischievous smile, then offers his hand to me. It takes a moment for me to understand he really wants me totake it, and I do. I let him wrap his fingers around mine, and I notice his palm is cool, rather than warm like mine. It’s a relief, as someone who’s always looking for a way to cool down and runs hot enough to want to bury herself naked in the snow sometimes.
But his touch also sends a strange, almost electric sensation through me that has the hair on the back of my neck standing up, even though I’ve never experienced a feeling quite like it. Before I can stop myself, I jerk my hand back, and Cairo lets me. “Sorry.” The word is out of my mouth quickly, apologetic and breathy. “I didn’t mean?—”
Cairo shakes his head, and his lips twist in a very amused smile. “You don’t need to be sorry,” he tells me, in that soft, drawling voice he seems to have when he’s not yelling at Tyler. “Seriously, it’s probably better that you aren’t so trusting of any stranger you meet. Especially in a mental hospital.” He gestures faintly at the walls surrounding us, reminding me yet again that our matching powder blue uniforms aren’t by choice or necessitated by fashion.
“And I’m not offended, so I’ll still take you to go find food. Esther gave you the official tour, right?” He rolls his eyes as he asks, showing me exactly what he thinks of the orderly from earlier.
“Why don’t you like her?” I follow him as he turns, trudging down the stairs as our steps echo in the narrow stairwell. I have no idea where we’re going, obviously. And when Cairo pushes open a door at the bottom of the steps, I’m still not sure what part of the sanitarium we’re in.
He shrugs, gesturing for me to walk through. I do, once again taking a moment to study his face while he’s busy shutting the door just enough to look closed, but not quite. When I glance down, I see a piece of something at the bottom, creating just a bit of a barrier to stop it from locking.
Interesting.
When Cairo looks up, I do too, at precisely the right time for our eyes to meet. His dark, emerald eyes are deep set in an angular face that speaks volumes of his shrewdness. there’s a dark glint in his gaze telling me he sees more than I’d ever know. If I had to guess an age, I’d say he’s maybe thirty, at most. Though I definitely can’t say for sure.
I’ve never been very good at judging ages. And considering the tired lines and dark circles under his eyes, I really could be pretty off the mark.
“It isn’t personal,” he says finally, leading me down a quiet hallway. I hear talking behind some of the doors, but he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it. In fact, when he turns down another hallway, it’s just in time for me to see a woman push through a set of swinging double doors ahead of us. Judging by the smell in the hallway, it has to be the kitchen. Orakitchen. This place is big enough that it could easily have more than one.
For a few moments, I follow him, surprised that he’s so quiet. When we were still with Tyler, he seemed more talkative around me, making me wonder if that was bravado or to prove a point. Hell, maybe he really just doesn’t like me either, for all that he doesn’t know me. He pushes into the kitchen easily, without hesitation, and when I follow behind him, it’s with hunched shoulders. I can’t imagine we’re just allowed to be in here.
“Hi Cairo!” The woman who just went in stops cutting vegetables, and looks up at him with a wide, friendly smile. “You missed dinner last night. Again. Should I be concerned?” She doesn’t sound like she is, though. She just seems friendly, and belatedly her eyes fall on me. “You’re new here.” It’s not a question, and I bite my lip at the unexpected observation.
“I’m Fern,” I greet, and I lift a hand to give her a lame little wave. “Sorry. Uh, I haven’t eaten all day and Cairo said?—”
“Oh, it’s no problem!” The woman looks to be in her mid thirties, I decide as she bustles around the kitchen. “Any allergies?” At my head shake, she goes to the fridge and opens it, grabbing things out to put in a bowl. Then she snags a bottle of water from it and closes the large industrial appliance with her hip before turning on me again.
“I have a few leftovers from lunch. It’s not much, and definitely not a real meal, but it should keep your stomach from protesting too much.” I’m still in shock as she hands me a tray with a wrapped sandwich, the bottle of water, and a bowl of fruit on it.
This is definitely a better meal than I manage to fix for myself about fifty percent of the time. I look up at her, my first actual smile showing for the first time today. “Thank you so much,” I tell her, meaning every word. “Maybe now my stomach won’t eat my organs.”
That gets a snort from Cairo. “You can eat in the dining hall. If that’s okay?” Though the suggestion is for me, he addresses the question to the woman, who nods her head and waves at us dismissively. She already seems back in her little world when she starts cutting up vegetables again and only offers me one last smile as Cairo guides me out of another door in the small kitchen.
“She’s not the only one who works in there, right?” I ask, glancing back at her as the door swings closed behind me.
“This is the staff kitchen and dining hall. I usually eat here because I like to avoid…” he trails off. “Well, everyone I guess. So yeah, she’s the only one who works in this kitchen.”
Without hesitation, he sits across from me at a small table by the window, and I can’t help gazing outside, searching the trees for whatever I swear I saw before. But I must take too long, because Cairo taps the tray pointedly, and when I look at him, he tilts his head to give me a rather unimpressed look.
“You’re supposed to be eating, remember?” he asks me, prompting me to roll my eyes.
“Yes,Father.”I crack open the water bottle, taking a drink as I study him. For a moment, I’m not sure where he’s looking, as his eyes are on the table between us, but when it hits me, I move to draw my other hand back, suddenly self-conscious of the bandage on my palm and the stitches underneath.
“Wait.” He reaches out quickly, too quickly for me to beat, and his fingers gently encircle my wrist, careful about where he touches. “Can I ask what happened?”
“Depends,” I challenge unintentionally. My fingers flex in his grip, and I make myself meet his gaze as I set the bottle back down. With only one hand, I can’t unwrap the sandwich, so I instead pick up the plastic fork and stab a piece of strawberry. “What will you tell me if I tell you?”
“What do you want to know?” A small, grudging smile flickers over his lips, and I realize he’s the master of micro-expressions. He never seems to react strongly to anything, and if I’m not watching, I’ll miss his reactions entirely.
“Why are you here?” It’s a bold question, and not one I feel like I should be asking. But that’s the equivalent of what he’s asking me, so it feels fair.
“Oh, we’re going straight for the kill, are we?” He lets go of my hand and I unwrap the half of a sandwich, noting with relief that it’s chicken salad instead of tuna.
God, I hate tuna.
I only shrug my shoulders and pick up the sandwich, biting into it cautiously in case there’s something that will have me spewing out the contents at Cairo and ruining our little budding, temporary friendship for good. But it’s mild, not too wet, and with a crunch I identify as celery. All I could really ask for if I was being picky are grapes or curry, but I’m more than happy with this.
So is my stomach, more importantly, meaning that my liver and kidneys will live to see another day instead of being feasted upon in tribute.
