Page 33 of Trade
I don’t feel safe. Not at all.
But I feel seen.
ChapterSeven
Iwake up to the smell of coffee. Every bone in my body aches, my joints are locked, and I have to pee desperately, but no part of me wants to leave the cocoon I’ve made out of the blanket in my sleep.
Coffee is the only thing that would lure me out of my warm pocket into the morning chill. I still spend a few minutes gazing at the Outside. The sky is low and gray, the grass is wet, and the air is damp. I understood the concept of dew—that the Earth’s surface cools at night and at some point, the air can’t hold all the moisture, so the excess water vapor becomes droplets—but I had no idea that it smells like beginnings, that it stirs up a feeling of anticipation in your belly.
I could have died without ever knowing. I rub my eyes, stretch my legs, and point my toes. It’s too early for deep thoughts. Not before coffee.
Dalton has a small metal carafe sitting on a trivet made of rocks in the coals. He hears me stirring and glances over. He looks rough, but even with wild hair and red eyes, he’s still supernaturally pretty.
“Want some?” he asks. If it were Bennett, the offer would come with a smirk, but Dalton is just asking.
“Oh, yeah.” I grit my teeth, throw back the blanket, and stand. I shove my icy feet into my boots and stomp to warm them up and shake my coveralls back into shape. While I slept, the waist twisted and a pant leg got stuck above my knee. Once I’ve got things adjusted, I start for the woods to find some privacy.
Dalton leaps to his feet. “Where are you going?”
I pause mid-stride. “There.” I hike my thumb toward the trees.
We size each other up. I guess we’re still at daggers drawn. I widen my eyes, silently daring him to ask me why or tell me I can’t.
He slowly sits back down.
I lift my chin and sail into the trees, feeling like I’ve won a round until I find a nice thick oak trunk and confront the indignity of peeing in the woods again. I’ve discovered that on real terrain, I have very little balance and coordination. There is no way around it if I don’t want to accidentally hose down the only clothes I have. I have to step all the way out of my coveralls and set them aside, which means I have to take off my boots and squat basically naked in the Outside.
It doesn’t help the process that the world is alive with new sounds this morning, different birds and strange new chirrups and unidentifiable crunches and snaps. I have to squeeze my eyes shut and focus hard to get things going while my thighs burn and my knees complain.
When I return, Dalton is pouring coffee into a small metal cup. “I only have one,” he says, taking a big gulp, wincing, then offering it to me.
I sit next to him by the fire.
“Careful. Hot,” he says. I take the cup by its tiny handle. It’s almost too hot to hold. He wasn’t kidding.
I blow on it and breathe it in while Dalton digs another parchment packet from his bag. This time it’s a mix of dried fruit and nuts. The nuts are the same from yesterday, but I don’t recognize the fruit.
“What is this?” I ask as I pop a piece in my mouth.
“Apricot,” he says. I recognize the name. It’s a stone fruit we don’t have in the collection.
The first head of AP selected a cherry tree to preserve from the Rosaceae family, probably because of its size. The first gen didn’t always pick the smallest trees, but the cherry tree had historical significance, as well—a story about a founder of the nation that provided for the bunker. It’s a shame. Cherries are too tart to me. Apricots are delicious.
I take two more from the packet Dalton is holding and sip the coffee. A bird begins to sing nearby, cheerful and light like in the cartoon movies with princesses. I scan the trees until I see a flash of blue.
“There!” I grab Dalton’s thigh and point.
His hand goes to the machete at his side until he sees the bird.
“What’s that one called?” I ask.
“Bluebird.”
“Yeah. The blue one. What’s it called?”
“Bluebird,” he says, his lips curving.
“Seriously?”
