And the strangest thing happens. Ella bursts out crying.
She’s not a crier. Living with her father has taught her that crying in front of other people will earn ridicule and abuse, possibly get her poked with a single index finger in the chest or shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise. But no one has spoken to her in weeks except for Uncle Chad. All the messages she’s received by text and online are more people talking at her, fishing for info and gossip and ammunition because they’re desperately bored, not people who are actually worried about her.
No one has asked about her feelings since before her mom got sick. Once Mom had the Violence, even she stopped asking. Nana never asked. Uncle Chad didn’t.
No one.
And so the floodgates are down.
“I didn’t make her do that,” the brusque person says, but they step closer and look concerned.
The girl, though, she drops her basket and pulls Ella into a hug. She smells—well, not that great, actually. Like Florida summer BO and something funky, like beer and bleach and maybe patchouli. Surely Ella smells no better. But the way she holds Ella is unreserved, warm, yielding, completely giving and open. Ella hasn’t been hugged like this since she was in preschool.
That only makes her cry harder.
She feels like she’s forgotten how to be a person, like she’s some ratlike animal, some thing that has to hide and skulk in the darkness, something that deserves the oppressive heat and dull air and hunger of Mr. Reese’s house. The brave, easygoing girl who came out to play on the playground got shed like a pair of old shoes as this new version of Ella scurried back to her bolt-hole, which should feel safe but just makes her feel trapped.
Maybe being alone for weeks on end isn’t good for a person.
Maybe she’s been messed up since Covid, going through a pandemic and puberty at the same time, stuck at home with her family for a year, hiding in her room, pulling away from hugs because boobs were awkward and girls were supposed to start acting like women. Brookie is pretty much the only one she’s hugged regularly since she was thirteen, and sometimes she wonders if it will ever feel natural and normal again, just touching people.
“Hey, it’s okay,” the girl says, rubbing her back. “Get it all out.”
“Is there a problem?”
Ella doesn’t have to look up to know it’s the cashier.
“No. Do you have a problem?” the brusque person says, stepping between the hug and the cashier, sounding more masculine now and downright mean.
“I don’t want any trouble,” the man says, but almost like he kind of does? “I can call security.”
“Why would you do that? Do crying women seem like a threat to you?”
“I, uh.”
Ella chuckles against the girl’s shoulder. Even if she’s messed up, she can recognize the beauty of leaving an asshole with no rational response that doesn’t further reveal his assholery.
“We’re in the middle of a murder pandemic,” the girl rubbing her back says over her head, sounding eminently rational and intelligent. “Literally every human being who’s alive right now is living with unprocessed trauma. Someone crying in public should not read to you as a problem. It’s not only reasonable, but also helpful to society as a whole. When was the last time you cried?”
The guy snorts. “Make a purchase or I’ll have you escorted out,” he finally says, and by the way the girl sighs in relief, Ella can tell he’s beat a hasty retreat rather than talk about anyone’s feelings.
“Fuckin’ patriarchal bullshit,” the brusque person mutters.
Ella pulls away and wipes her face, not that it’s going to do much to make her look functional. The girl is right—everybody is still traumatized from Covid, and now lots of them are being retraumatized in exciting new ways by the Violence.
“I’m okay,” she says, not quite meeting the girl’s eyes but wishing she was the kind of person who could easily do that. She realizes she’s still holding the can of soup, which is just goddamn ridiculous. “Or, as okay as anyone is. Which is not okay at all but functional enough to not buy a can of stew with no way to heat it.” She shoves the can back on the shelf, feeling like an idiot.
The girl cocks her head, concern written in her features. “Why can’t you reheat soup?”
“No, fuck that,” the other person says, glancing over their shoulder. “We can reheat soup for you. Just get what you need and let’s get out of here before Mr. Concealed Carry decides we’re too dangerous to leave to the professional mall security cop.” They grab three cans of beef stew from the shelf and start off down the aisle and then turn back. “Wait. You over eighteen?”
Ella shakes her head, her danger sense tingling. Because why would that matter?
“Damn.”
They stomp off.
The girl standing in front of her smiles reassuringly. “I’m Leanne. That’s River. We’re totally safe. A little weird, but not in a threatening way, even if River is pretty grouchy most of the time. If you saw the RV outside, that’s ours. We have a little kitchen with a microwave for your soup. It’s nicer inside than it looks. Are you homeless?”
“Uh. Kinda?”
Leanne nods knowingly. “Lot of that going around. We should be done in five, if you want to come with us. We can help you.”
Ella’s eyebrows draw down, and Leanne must realize how creepy that sounds, as she looks mortified. “Sorry. Let me try that again. I’m a grad student. River is a YouTube star. We have resources. We don’t want anything from you. We’re just…trying to help.”
Help sounds great, but Ella knows by now that things that sound too good to be true usually are.
“As long as it’s not a cult or drugs,” she says shakily. “Or…a lot of other things. I would love some hot soup, but I’m not willing to do anything gross for it.”
“Nothing gross is wanted. We’ve just both been in dire straits before. If you can’t heat soup, find somebody with a microwave, right? I’ll be in the pharmacy aisles. You can hang outside by the RV for us, if you finish first. Nothing weird. Seriously. God, even that sounds weird? Ugh! I swear, I’m so tired I keep forgetting how to be a person.”
“I know that feeling.”