Page 52 of The Last Hope
Waiting for his snide remark, I try not to feel as pathetic as theRomuluscadets said we are.
Mykal lounges against the railing beside Court, but he faces the military-clad people like me. His flexed muscles tensing mine.
The towering boy looks to the third person, a steely-eyed one, who holds him dotingly around the waist.Coupling.
Humans must couple too.
The steely-eyed boy has cropped black hair and a rich blend of olive and copper skin, and like the others, his weapon, a spear, is situated on his back. He moves his hand in a variety of ways. Signing something toStork.
And strangely, I understand the gesticulation. The EonInterpreters must be translating his finger motions into words, and the answer just breezes to mind.
He signs,“Why didn’t you bathe them?”
Stork props his shoulder against a column. Cocking his head at me.
I flush hot in remembrance of how he tried to shove me into the atrium pool. To clean me up.
“See,” Stork tells me, “I told you, you stink like you’ve been sitting in your own shi—”
“I can bathe myself,” I cut him off.
Behind me, Mykal says huskily, “You tell them, Franny.”
I nearly smile.
The girl unplugs her nose. “It’s unsanitary to be in soiled linens. You’ll getsick.”
“She knows,” Stork says to the girl but keeps his eyes on me, and then on Mykal. “They both do.”
“Then why hasn’t she changed yet?” the girl asks, soon after pinpointing Mykal. “Why hasn’t he?”
Court was sponge-bathed and dressed in a tunic. Though, he had no real choice. His wound needed to be properly cleaned.
“Why do you care?” I ask, not too snippy.
She frowns. “Why don’tyou?”
I do.I try not to take offense, but wordless sound scratches my throat.
At the start, I didn’t. I had no desire to take care of myself. Not my cracked lips, not my aches and pains. Not my headaches or chills. But I’ve comefar.
I’m certain I have.
I care.
So deeply, so impossibly about my little life. I’ve doneeverythingI can to stay alive. How is that not proof? Why do these dirty clothes tell a different story?
Court rubs his face, attempting to soothe the fire that scorches me. His hand is my hand. His palm, marred with old scars, pauses on his mouth. He struggles against the impulse to peer over his shoulder at me.
I find my voice. “I care.”
I care.
No one can tell me otherwise.
The steely-eyed boy signs to the girl,“They don’t trust us enough to bathe here.”
Sympathy lowers her shoulders. Realizing why we’ve risked our health and stayed in rancid clothes.
