“Whatever you want.” I knew it had to be unnerving for him. In his life, all that he could remember, he hadn’t been given the chance to make decisions—any decisions. He’d done well in the bookstore, but there he’d had fairly specific guidelines. This was different; this was being adrift. He had to find his way, though, sooner or later. I nudged his shoulder. “Hey, you bought the rat without any help. This will be easy in comparison. No teeth. No stink.” I gave him a light shove. “Now go. Just make sure you get us both coats and a couple of sweaters.”
I kept him in sight as he shopped. I wanted to foster independence but not at the expense of having him snatched while I wasn’t watching. Jericho was like the monster you knew was under your bed when you were little. You could turn the lights on and peer under there to see only a lost and dusty sneaker. You could know for a fact you were alone, but the second the lights went out again, it would be back. Its hot breath would pant fetid and foul in your face. The jagged claws would weave through your hair to lightly scrape your scalp. Logic meant nothing to childhood monsters.
It didn’t mean anything to Jericho either.
I knew he couldn’t have followed us. The tracking chip was gone, and we’d made our way across several states. We were safe, at least for a while. Even if he was capable of finding us again, it would take time. He wasn’t going to come rushing out of the crowd to my left with that bone-jangling laugh. He wouldn’t be waiting around the next corner to take Michael from me as he had before. I kept telling myself those things, kept looking under the bed for all I was worth, but it didn’t reassure me any more than it had when I was four.
Michael stopped in front of a store teeming with teenagers. There were artsy black-and-white posters and faceless mannequins draped in clothes the Salvation Army would’ve thrown out. I sat on a bench, went to work on a chocolate chip cookie from the food court, and watched the show. He leaned closer to the glass to peer through at a price tag, then jerked upright with outrage as it registered. “It’s a trap, Misha,” I murmured under my breath around a mouthful of crumbling dough. “Run. Run for your life.” Although Uncle Lev was still lurking inescapably in my thoughts, I couldn’t help but be entertained as I watched my brother.
Moving to the next store, Michael studied the window display for several minutes before deciding to go in. I smothered a smile at the suspicious set of his shoulders. The ways of the world remained mysterious to him, and the ways of retail were mystifying to us all. Relaxing as he went from store to store, I was ready for more than a cookie by the time he finished up. He’d taken about an hour, but considering that he had to develop his own likes and dislikes in that time, I couldn’t complain. I was curious to know what he’d picked out, though. I had the kid pegged for dark blues and grays, clothes that wouldn’t stand out; a combination of post-Institute syndrome and being a fugitive on the run.
“What’d you get?”
He deposited two large bags on the bench beside me and reached into one to whip out a shirt. There were blues and grays; I’d been right about that. There were also white, black, green, all coalescing into a picture . . . a face. It was a long sleeve shirt of a slick, heavy material and it was covered with a psychedelic, watercolor portrait of Albert Einstein. I’d seen the type before, retro funk and usually decorated with a rock star or famous actor. This was definitely a new twist.
“Isn’t it great?” Michael shook it out so I could get a better look. “What do you think?”
“There are no words,” I said honestly.
“I have one with Sigmund Freud too.” He folded Albert carefully and put him back into a bag before rummaging again. “Where? Oh, here. See?”
Unless the eminent and penis-obsessed psychiatrist had had a sex change operation not recorded by history, Michael had grabbed the wrong shirt. There were blond hair, cleavage, and a wide ruby red mouth. Marilyn Monroe. At least he had an appreciation for the classics.
“Well,” I said in contemplation as I sucked the last of my Coke through the straw, “that’ll let the girls know you’re open for business.”
Michael looked down and flushed before hurriedly shoving the famous blond bombshell back out of sight. “Er . . . it was on sale.” It was his first solo shopping trip and he’d already nailed the ultimate excuse.
“Damn, kiddo.” I couldn’t help myself. I had to laugh. It came out a bit strangled through my aching throat, but it was genuine. “You’ve got the worse taste.”
He stiffened, not seeing the humor in the situation. “You told me to buy whatever I wanted.”
“Hey, come on.” Pushing the bags aside, I took a handful of his jacket and pulled him down to sit on the bench. “I think it’s perfect. You landed on your feet and hit the ground running. You’re you, Misha. No matter what those bastards tried to do to you, you’re still your own person.” I tossed the cup into the garbage can a few feet away and gave him a wicked smile. “And that person just happens to have crappy taste.”