“What will happen to me?”
“We’ll be contacting your next-of-kin. They’ll be around to collect you shortly.”
“I don’t have a next-of-kin.”
Charlotte paused. “Well. Not to worry. We’ll sort it out.”
The other volunteers who had come through that morning had looked at him with sorrow in their eyes. They saw a broken, homeless orphan. Some averted their eyes as they distributed food and water and changed blankets and bedpans. It was as if seeing him could hurt them. Maybe it did. Maybe the more tragedy they saw, the more they felt, the more they hurt. Desmond didn’t blame them. And he always thanked them. His mother was particular about his manners.
Charlotte was different. She looked at him the way people did before, like he was just a normal boy, like there was nothing wrong with him at all. That made him feel good.
Desmond lay there after she left, staring at the ceiling, listening to the news program that played on the radio owned by the elderly man across the aisle.
“Officials continue to assess the toll of the Ash Wednesday bushfires in southeastern Australia. At least seventy are dead, thousands are injured, and property losses are expected to reach into the hundreds of millions. In Victoria alone, over half a million acres burned yesterday. Over a million acres are expected to burn this season. Livestock losses are very high. More than three hundred thousand sheep have been lost, and nearly twenty thousand cattle. For the first time in its history, South Australia has declared a state of emergency.
“Fire crews are still battling the flames. They’re getting a lot of help, too. Volunteers from around the country are pouring into the region. Over a hundred thousand are expected to join the effort, including military, relief workers, and others.
“The source of the fires is not known at this time, but the extreme drought conditions are no doubt a factor. Wind gusts and dust storms have also contributed. We’ve heard reports of road surfaces bubbling and catching fire, sand turning to glass, and steaks in a deep freezer turning up cooked well done…”
That afternoon Charlotte returned with a gift. She had even wrapped it in newspaper.
“Sorry, best I could do.”
Desmond tore into the gift, then tried to hide his disappointment as he turned the books over in his hands, gazing at the covers.
“What’s the matter?” Charlotte asked.
“I can’t read.”
She was instantly embarrassed. “Oh. Oh, right. Of course.”
“I’m only five.”
“Is that so?” Her tone implied surprise. “I just assumed you were older.”
Desmond liked that very much.
“Well, I’ll just have to read them to you.” She paused. “If you can bear it, of course.”
A few minutes later, Desmond was lost in the story world, the horror around him forgotten, the stench extinguished. Even the moans of the people sharing the room faded away—until a tall, black-haired man interrupted. He was roughly Charlotte’s age, and he stood in the aisle gazing at her in a way that made Desmond want to get up and block his view.
“You coming, Charlotte?”
“No. You go ahead.”
“You were off an hour ago, dear.”
Desmond hated the way he said dear.
“I know. Gonna stay a bit longer.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“Don’t.”
The man exhaled deeply, the way Desmond’s father always did when dealing with a stubborn horse.
When he was gone, Charlotte continued reading as if there had been no interruption.
They were halfway through the story when she closed the book.
“Bedtime, Des.”
She tucked him in and brushed his blond hair out of his face, then turned off the kerosene lantern. It was his first good night of sleep since the fire.
The next morning he had hoped to continue the book, but Charlotte had another surprise. She brought around a wheelchair and asked if he’d like to get outside for some fresh air.
She didn’t have to ask twice.
She pushed him out of the room, down the hall, and outside. The February sun felt good on Desmond’s face. It had been a hot summer, one Australia would remember for a long time to come. He let the wind whip at his face and toss his hair about as he inhaled deeply, thankful to take a breath not tainted by the smell of death.
He propelled the wheelchair himself after that, glad for the freedom. His feet were still healing. The doctors had assured him he’d make a full recovery.
“You’ll be walking around again in no time,” they promised him. He couldn’t wait. He’d had no idea how precious a gift walking was until then.
Charlotte returned in the late afternoon and read to him until lights out. That became their pattern: a field trip in the morning, reading until bedtime.
A week later, Desmond again asked her what would happen to him.
“We’re working on it, Des. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Slowly, as the days went by, he got his feet under him again. He began to rove around the school without the wheelchair. He toured the cafeteria, the other classrooms, even the teachers’ lounge, the idea of which thrilled him. In reality it was rather unimpressive.
He even volunteered, helping prepare the meals. The overweight cook had handed him a metal ladle and dubbed him the “souper scooper.” The man let out a hacking laugh that turned into a cough every time he said it. Despite that, Desmond rather liked the bloke.
He was walking back to his bed when he heard Charlotte’s voice coming from one of the offices they’d set up in another converted classroom. She was upset.
“You have to.”
A pause.
“No, sir. You have to take him. We’ve tried—”
Another pause.
“Yes, that’s correct. You’re the only family he has.”
He heard a phone placed on the receiver and her crying after that. He was about to go into the room when he heard the black-haired man’s voice.
“You’re getting too attached, Charlotte.”