“We can’t afford chaos at The Greening,” she threatens. “I always suspected your brother was too young to fit in here, and I was right.”
“Sleep on it, please,” I plead. “We’ll be good. I’ll talk sense into him. I’ll watch him more carefully.” Not so sure I can, if Thorn’s gone off the deep end, but I’ll try.
“No promises,” she warns. “I’ll give it a day or two.” Nevada only allows me to speak to Thorn for a few minutes. It’s clear by the way he hugs himself as he rocks that beneath his determination he’s terrified. He’s only a kid, but clearly Nevada doesn’t trust me now, as if she thinks we’re plotting like she used to do in her ZWC group. Why we would plot this type of destruction when we’re in dire need of shelter is a mystery to me. Obviously we need the contest money as much as the next person here.
I sit on the floor next to Thorn, in the room he shares with Radius. He’s still rocking. His hair is matted with sweat, and I can tell by his dirt-striped face that he’s been crying.
Nevada is stationed in the hall, so any correspondence with Thorn must be full of stealth. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy about Thorn and I plotting. Now undercover communication will be a necessity.
“Why? Tell me why?” I whisper, so close to his ear that strands of his hair tickle my mouth. “One sign so I know you’re not …” I catch myself about to say ‘mental’. He’ll clam up worse if he feels criticized. “One clue, that’s all. Please, Thorn?”
He pauses in his movements. That’s how I sense he’s registered my desperate words.
Nevada peeks in. “You done in there?” This prompts him into rocking again.
“A few more seconds, please.” I try again, more urgently. “Thorn, tell me! I won’t be able to talk with you again for a while.”
He stops rocking, and presses his damp, round head against my ear. “Food,” he murmurs.
Miracles! I guide his chin up gently until he’s looking at me, and pantomime bringing something to my mouth. He nods solemnly and then looks away. I know it makes him uncomfortable to look at someone for long. It’s painful to him. Food. He said food! My faith in his sanity’s restored, but what does he mean? I dare not ask because Nevada’s walking in.
“Time to go downstairs, Ruby,” she says.
I feel the prick of tears.
“Now, Ruby.”
I press Thorn close, inhale his little boy scent of dirty hair and something irrepressibly sweet. That’s how I imagine the ocean waves too—blue, buoyant, briny yet sweet. I rise to my feet and reluctantly leave. Looking back over my shoulder I see him already swaying again behind the closing door.
Now, he’ll be trapped in his shut-in world even more than he already was.
Food—food for what? Food for us, for the Fireseed? Food for the Fireseed. That seems right. Don’t know why but it does.
What kind of food for the Fireseed? I thought it survived on basically nothing.
It takes all day to repair the rips nearest the perimeter, which are most vulnerable to invasion and theft. My arms throb from the effort of holding the tarp steady above my head, as I sew with my other hand. At least Blane is respectful. He doesn’t tease me or even make obnoxious comments about Armonk. I’m more grateful than it makes sense to be.
At dinner, though, hatred pours out as fast as water from the pitcher.
“We should toss your brother out to the lizards,” Vesper spits.
“Hurl him through one of his own holes in the tarp,” Jan suggests.
“Send him to a loony bin in Vegas-by-the-Sea,” Vesper adds, as she spears a hunk of beetle loaf, and drops it on her plate.
“Make him sew up all of the rest of the holes,” says Radius. “Why should we slave away at fixing them if we didn’t even cut them?”
“Better yet,” Vesper’s eyes narrow at me, “get his sister for what he’s done.”
“She told him to give her a signal,” Blane tells his comrades as if I’m not even there. “Why would she do that?” He gazes at me. “Are you two working as a team to trip us up?”
“Well, are you?” Bea leans over the table and stares at me with her chalk blue eyes. It hurts most that she would question me.
“Of course not,” I insist. “I’m trying to get answers, just like you.”
“That kid can talk, he’s faking being mute,” Jan claims. “He’d talk if I shook him.”
“No,” I say. “That was the problem in the first place. He’s had the voice beaten out of him.”
“I’ll beat it out more,” warns Jan.
“The hell you will,” says Armonk.
“Defending the loon?” Jan sneers.