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  The houses that had appeared as black silhouettes against the gray sky from across the bridge became gloomy two-story homes with dark windows. They differed in the color of their siding and the locations of chipping paint but were otherwise identical. She remembered stories of desperate homeowners unable to sell their houses located too far outside of city limits to be valuable. To protect what they had left in case their fortunes or the economy turned, they transformed their homes into burglar traps before fleeing to the city.

  “They like to hide nets under the leaves,” a boy named Joe had told her once. She had been huddled around a trashcan fire under an overpass with a dozen other children who had run away from children’s homes or replacement families. The others, hardened after being on their own for years, looked at Joe with a mixture of disbelief and disregard. They knew the rules.

  There is no friendship. Trust no one. Share nothing.

  “Sometimes turning on the kitchen sink triggers an explosion that can take your hand right off,” Joe exclaimed. No one listened. Joe claimed to loot houses, hauling the goods into town and selling them for any profit he could make. Lareina and others like her didn’t dare leave the city, focused more on surviving the cold winter than Joe’s stories, which they considered to be nothing more than fantasies.

  But only twelve then, she had listened. She had been on her own for a month. Perhaps it was that she didn’t know the rules, or the earnestness in Joe’s voice made her stop and listen. “The worst are the pits,” he told his wide-eyed audience of one. “You never see them until you’re face-first in the dirt.”

  Her cautious eyes immediately noticed how the field behind the houses had rectangular sections that sunk lower than the ground around them. Some areas had completely dropped away, exposing rotted edges of blue tarp still staked into the ground above. Easing closer to the nearest backyard, she tested the ground in front of her with one foot before putting her weight on it. She didn’t believe anyone could really lack the observation skills to fall for such an obvious trap, but the uncertainty of what she might miss had kept her in the city. Now Galloway had forced her from the place where at least she knew the rules to survive.

  Clouds approached, thickening, darkening, and blotting out the ever-dimming light. Ten feet to the fence, then the safety of an overgrown backyard, then the warmth of any house she chose.

  A snapping sound drew her attention upward to a red- and-white striped tarp blowing in the wind. Once the roof of a treehouse, it lifted, twisted, fell, and her memory did the same. Nearly eight years earlier in a place almost a thousand miles away, she had spent summer evenings watching fireworks and fall afternoons reading books in a treehouse almost identical to the one in front of her. Although she had lived in the Maibe, Nebraska, Home for Children, she spent most of her time with Rochelle Aumont, the only friend she had ever made in her life. For that brief year, she had been given a childhood.

  A mosquito hummed near her ear. She swatted it away and stepped forward.

  To her left an open pit swallowed up the ground, daring any visitor to take another step. Large chunks of tarp shivered on stakes after being torn away at strategic cuts when strained under too much weight. She edged closer to investigate. Thunder rumbled in the distance as she looked into the pit.

  Something orange stood out against the dull mud in gray light. When it moved she took a cautious step forward, sending little clumps of earth rolling into the hole. A boy with a dirt-smudged face and mud-speckled blond hair stared up at her.

  “Hey, are you all right down there?” She leaned forward as far as she could without tumbling over the edge.

  The boy scowled up at her and rolled his eyes in a way that involved his entire head. “Does it look like I’m all right?”

  She shrugged and turned away from the pit, ready to find some shelter before the storm crawled any closer. Interacting with other people would only be done for necessity of survival. Trust no one. Share nothing.

  “Wait.” The small voice sounded so different from the first that she had to look again to verify only one boy sat in the trap. “I’m hungry and I hurt my ankle.”

  Any gruffness had fizzled from his voice and deflated from his stature. He winced as he pulled his knees up to his chin. Pathetic, terrified, and desperate. Would he die if no one else came along to help him? She imagined herself in the same situation, Galloway’s face hovering above, and shivered.

  “I’ll be right back.” She turned and maneuvered through a rotted section of fence into the knee-high grass of a backyard gone wild. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you out.”

  Easing around the yard to avoid any other traps, she maneuvered to the tree house she had noticed earlier. Barely visible through lush grass, hid the remnants of an old tire swing. She ripped the tire away from tangled weeds and surveyed the frayed rope attached to the end. It would have to be good enough. She hoisted the tire and walked awkwardly back to the pit as the wind picked up intensity, gusting out of the north, complementing sharp lightning that streaked through the darkening sky. Although she anticipated it, each roar of thunder sent a tremor through her body.

  She set the tire down at the edge of the pit and lowered the rope. When the boy gripped the frayed end, she wrapped her arms through the tire and leaned back with all of her weight. Nothing happened.

  “You’re going to have to help me,” she shouted against the wind. “Try to climb up the side.”

  Hugging the tire as if it were a teddy bear, she pulled. Tension on the rope slackened and she took a step back. Inch by inch she stepped away from the pit. With one last tug, she stumbled backward and the boy sprawled onto the grass.

  Lareina sat on the soggy ground, too drained and proud of her ingenuity to remember fear. She remained still, head bent forward, watching as the wind lifted strands of her long black hair.

  The boy crawled toward her without letting his left ankle touch the ground. He tilted his head to the side and curly blond hair flopped over his forehead. “Are . . . are you all right?” His voice trembled with uncertainty.

  She smiled and nodded. “Yeah, just resting.”

  He settled next to her, injured ankle stretched in front of him, and extended his hand. “I’m Nick Ziel.”

  She shook his hand politely, but an introduction didn’t come readily to her lips. Was it safe to tell this boy her name? Would he know she was a wanted fugitive? She didn’t even have a last name to give him.

  Nick’s puzzled expression let her know she had hesitated too long. She nodded and smiled to buy another second, to think of the kind of person she wanted to be, then met his puzzled eyes and replied, “Nice to meet you, Nick. My name is Rochelle Aumont.”

  The image of a smiling eight-year-old girl with kind green eyes flashed through her mind. Lareina had only been ten years old for a week when she said goodbye to Rochelle. The last day of the eleven months and fifteen days that she had lived in the Maibe Home for Children was one of the few times she’d cried in the past ten years. It felt wrong to steal an old friend’s name, but it was too late to change her mind. Nick let go of her hand as the first raindrops landed on her face.

  “It’s starting to rain,” he complained. “We have to get up onto a porch before we get soaked.”

  “What’s the rush?” She laughed. “You could use a shower anyway.”

  Wide brown eyes, thin nose, and pointed chin all nodded forward to observe his clothing. A deepening frown warned her that he hadn’t appreciated the comment.

  “Me? How about you?” he shot back.

  She had momentarily forgotten about the muddy grime that had accumulated on the worn jeans and baggy t-shirt she had nabbed from a fire escape rail as they dried. Rain poured heavier and, for the second time in less than an hour, she decided to leave Nick on the ground and find herself shelter for the night. She had pulled him out of the trap, and now he had his freedom and could fend for himself. Standing, she started toward the house.

  “Hey, you aren’t going to leave
me here?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I can barely put any weight on my ankle. I need your help,” he pleaded.

  Sighing, she returned to his side, offering her hand. “Then let’s go.”

  He took her hand and she pulled him to his feet. Though he stood a head taller than her, he was slighter than she first thought, and she awkwardly supported the weight his leg couldn’t as they stumbled through a deluge of water to the front porch of the nearest house. She helped him to a rotting wicker chair and tried the door. Locked, as expected, but she considered that less of a deterrent and more of an annoyance. After locating her lock picking tools in her bag, she knelt and inserted a pin into the keyhole on the doorknob.

  “What are you doing?” Nick asked as she worked on the lock.

  “I’m going to open this door.”

  Thunder rumbled and a stiff wind splattered raindrops against their drying faces.

  “You can’t do that.”

  A streak of lightning momentarily lit the sky. She tried the knob. Not quite.

  “Of course I can. Just give me a few more minutes.”

  “No, I mean we can’t just break into someone’s house.”

  She stopped working and turned to Nick. Words weren’t enough to express all she understood but he didn’t seem to comprehend. “It’s dangerous out here. We need a safe place to stay until the storm moves through.”

  Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back in the chair. “I know how dangerous it is. I’ve been doing this for three weeks now.”

  Lareina laughed. “You’ve been falling into pits for three weeks?”

  “No, that’s the first pit I’ve fallen into.” He met her amused smile with a glare. “I mean I’ve been away from home and surviving on my own just fine.”

  Ignoring him, she turned back to her task. In another minute, the lock clicked and with a light nudge, the door swung open.

  “I’m not going in there.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “Come on, Nick, I can see you shivering.”

  “Nothing you say is going to convince me to do something illegal.” The intensity of his scowl let her know just how much he disapproved of her actions. His attitude bounced from one hemisphere of her brain to the other, gaining speed, creating heat, simmering inside her head.

  “Illegal.” She spat the word back at him. “Is that going to be your last thought when you get struck by lightning? How old are you, Nick?” She forced a normal breath, kept a calm expression on her face, but felt her feet move closer to the open door.

  He leaned forward. “Seventeen.”

  “In that case . . .” She pointed to the dark sky beyond the porch. “There’s a storm.” She pointed into the dark interior of the house. “There’s shelter.” The wind gusted noisily, and she yelled to be heard over it. “You’re plenty old enough to make a decision.”

  His scowl vanished and he looked out at the black sky as if surveying the clouds for the first time. “Fine,” he surrendered. “Let’s go inside.”

  Lareina exhaled, willed her shaking hands to be still and took Nick’s arm. Once inside, she kicked the door shut with her foot, locking the storm outside. They entered a comfortable living room furnished with a blue couch and two matching recliners. It appeared untouched by the elements—no dripping ceiling or flood-saturated carpet. Through a second doorway, the kitchen greeted them, pristine and ready for someone to prepare a meal. No broken windows, no scattered possessions, undefiled by looters. Its proximity to the city should have made it one of the first targets, but perhaps it had been more recently abandoned. She shivered, thinking the family may have spent their final evening in the room where she stood only a few weeks earlier.

  A low rumble in her stomach drove her thoughts back to the more immediate requirements of survival. The last meal she had eaten was early that morning and had consisted of half of one of the precious candy bars stashed in her backpack.

  “Have you eaten anything today?” She helped Nick over to the kitchen table.

  “No, I ran out of food yesterday, and I ran out of money last week.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” Lareina laughed, then regretted expressing her opinion out loud. Nick, on first impression, came across as pathetic, naïve, and inept at staying alive, but insulting the stranger trapped under the same roof for the night constituted reckless behavior.

  He pushed her arm away and sat down heavily on a chair.

  Sighing, she leaned against the table. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day and I’m not so good at this.”

  “At what?” Nick rolled his eyes. “Having a conversation? Have you forgotten how to talk to people or do you just think you’re above all their rules?” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand and brought it to rest on the top of his head.

  Reading his mood didn’t come easy in the minutes she’d known him, but his posture slackened with his last sentence.

  “I don’t dislike people.” She brushed her fingers through the knots at the ends of her hair. “I just don’t trust them. Very few of them have given me any reason to.”

  Nick nodded and slouched. The suspicion in his eyes momentarily vanished, and she found her own emotions reflected in his expression: fear, uncertainty, and desperation. For the first time, she recognized their similarities. They both traveled alone, both wore dirty clothes, both hesitated to trust another human being. Each of them wandered through a broken world filled with starvation, riots, disease, and the fear of war around every corner.

  “I’m sorry. I was rude before. Thank you for helping me.” He rested his cheek on the table and all of his hair shifted, hiding half of his face.

  Lareina knelt next to him and rolled the left leg of his jeans up to his knee. A swollen bulge the size of a large peach replaced his ankle.

  “This is going to hurt,” she warned, and pulled his shoe off before he had time to protest.

  Nick cried out and clutched the seat of the chair. “What are you doing?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

  Shifting the chair next to him so it faced him, she lifted his injured leg onto it. “I’m just trying to help.” She stood and walked over to the cupboards. Inside she found white plates, matching bowls, and glasses—items she expected, but not what she hoped for.

  “What are you doing now?”

  She crossed the room and opened the doors to a floor-to-ceiling pantry. “I’m looking for supper, and I think I found it.” Reaching into the back corner of the darkness, she pulled out a can of chicken noodle soup, a nearly empty bag of raisins, and a bottle of salad dressing. Pushing the bottle back onto the shelf, she announced, “Soup and raisins it is.”

  “Mmm, something warm sounds great.” All accusation faded from his voice.

  “It does,” she agreed. “Too bad no one has been paying the electric bill.”

  Nick didn’t say another word as she divided the soup and raisins into separate bowls and carried them to the table. Lifting a spoonful of soup to her lips, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine warm steam tickling her face and soothing her dry throat.

  He gagged after his first bite. “How old is this?”

  Fantasy shattered, she opened her eyes and lowered the spoon. “What?”

  “The soup. Did you look at the date on the can? It tastes like it’s been in that cupboard for half a century.” Dropping his spoon in the bowl, he slid it away.

  “I don’t look at the dates. Expired food is the least of our problems.” She shrugged and swallowed another mouthful.

  Eventually, he decided he was hungry enough to eat the slightly metallic tasting soup and managed to swallow it by pinching his nose. Even with that strategy, he grimaced and complained about the probability of food poisoning.

  Lareina ignored him, letting her eyes drift across countertops and through a doorway leading into a dark room. The house looked huge from the outside, and she imagined four large bedrooms, all decorated with curtains and matching bedspre
ads, all with their own bathrooms that contained long, deep bathtubs. Bedrooms meant clothes. According to the stories, every house contained excess clothing. With her hunger satisfied, the discomfort of her sopping clothes clinging to her skin demanded her full attention.

  “Where are you going?” he asked when she was halfway to the door.

  “Upstairs to find some dry clothes.”

  “Rochelle, this isn’t our house. All of this stuff belongs to someone else.”

  The new name felt more authentic with every passing minute. She could feel herself slipping into a new life, shedding her old problems, and running toward something bright. There would be no going back, only forward. She continued toward the door. “No one’s coming back here, Nick. They’re all gone.”

  Gone. All gone. Those words echoed through her head and followed her up the wide stairway. The saddest notions are those that are true. She had read that phrase in a book, but she couldn’t remember which one.

  Silently, she padded across the soft carpet and into the first room at the top of the stairs. Never in her life had she encountered so much pink. The walls were painted pale pink, the bedspread matched, and even the carpet, although a darker shade, shared the color scheme. Three dolls sat on the bed and a pile of teddy bears guarded the corner.

  Gliding over to the bed, she picked up a doll wearing a green dress. She had never owned a doll, or much more than the clothes on her back for that matter. The air grew thicker, heavier, almost painful to force into her lungs as she thought of the little girl who once slept in that room.

  “Please let her be safe out there,” she whispered. After carefully replacing the doll exactly where she had found it, she wandered across the hall.

  In the next room clothes covered the floor; sheets, pillows, and blankets spilled off the bed to add to the chaos. Two posters—one depicting a man holding a basketball and the other a guy balancing a soccer ball on his knee—covered one wall.

  She pulled a t-shirt out of the closet and held it up. Perhaps a little big for Nick, she thought, but at least it’s dry. After a quick search of the room she also found a pair of sweatpants, a pair of jeans, and a clean pair of socks.