‘Blackie.’ She’s rinsing her mouth out with rainwater when she sees me. She refills her chipped mug from the barrel that caught it and offers it to me. I stare at her, willing her to take this moment to reconsider, but she misunderstands. She puts the mug down at my feet and backs off, her eyes downcast.
I turn back toward the boy. He’s stepped outside, but we can both see him squatting just past the doorway. It takes little to raise the fur along my spine, to start the high-pitched whine that comes before the growl.
‘He’s OK, Blackie. Really, I know,’ she says. For a moment, I have hope. ‘He would never hurt you.’
So be it. As much as I dislike this mission, I will join it. I do not know if I can keep Care safe if this boy chooses to betray her. But not only am I more sensible, I have senses far more acute than either of theirs and I will do what I can.
One thing for the boy – he can move quietly. Although Care is thin, too thin for a growing child, the boy is featherweight and knows how to navigate the city. I watch him dart, head down but eyes alert, from building to shadow. He has the moves of a prey animal, furtive and quick, but that is nature’s way, and I find myself relaxing. This boy has his own agenda, I can tell, but he will not blunder into anything. He will not betray the girl with carelessness.
She’s close behind, slower than he is, though I see more thought in her actions. Again, I wonder at her education – at this old man whose memory she holds so dear. Not only is she circumspect, stepping carefully as she makes her way through the rubble of the city, she is concerned. Not about her own safety, or not enough, but about the boy’s. I see how she watches him, his thin form darting. How he starts at every shadow. She sees his vulnerability and it means something to her. I do not want her to forget what it could mean for them both.
At least she is aware of her surroundings. I can see that as we leave the quiet behind and proceed into busier precincts. As we get farther from the train tracks and pass the turnoff to Fat Peter’s, the broken asphalt and cobblestone give way to smooth pavement and she begins to walk differently. She holds herself more erect, her chin higher. When one young man comments – whether in flirtation or a more commercial inquiry – she does not deign to answer, instead tossing off his murmured innuendos with a shake of her head that sends her pink bangs flying. It’s the equivalent of a tail lash, and he knows it, but I’m grateful to see her pick up her pace and hold her bag closer. Glad to see her hand settling on Tick’s shoulder as she guides him down the clean, white concrete. I hang back, using the shadows and the gutter for safe passage here, where all is centered on the patter of hard soles. But she is passing. Taking up space on these busy avenues.
I am less happy here. The loud clatter of commerce offends my sensitive ears, and the vehicles – common here – limit my safe range of motion. Were it not for my color, I would find it difficult to make my way. As it is, between shadow and superstition, I am able to clear a path. More troublesome are the concerned shoppers – women, mainly – who see me speeding low and call out as if to give me aid. As we navigate an urban mall – a stretch of concrete blocked to traffic – one even dares to reach for me, her manicured hands brushing my guard hairs before I can escape. One hiss, a green-eyed glare, and she draws back. Still, I have lost precious seconds and must hurry to keep Care and the boy within earshot.
‘There.’ The boy knows enough not to point, but he has grabbed Care and stopped her. They are standing on a corner, at the edge of a building as sharp as stone and glass can be as I catch up to them, and at the boy’s alert they have pressed against the granite wall. There is no place for me to hide here, no shadows, and so I squeeze by them, letting the girl feel my warmth on her ankle. She glances down and smiles at me, her green eyes only slightly darker than my own. The boy does not. He is staring, his eyes riveted on the building across the street, where the storefront is metal instead of stone and the glare from the windows is blinding. ‘That one,’ he says.
‘There?’ Care squints at the building. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’ The boy sounds excited rather than hurt. ‘There’s not another store like it.’ He looks up and I see what he’s staring at: a diamond shape of painted glass suspended above the windows,
Care isn’t looking at the sign. She’s turned toward the boy, and I don’t think it’s the glare that has knitted her brow.
‘Tick, you’ve been here before?’ She’s watching his face, and so I open my mouth to take in his – and this city’s scent.