Page 52 of The Storm

I nod. “Instead she told me Beck Hamilton gave her cookies for Valentine’s.”

Nick lets out a quiet laugh.

“I said, ‘Okay.’ She folded the card up again and handed it back to me. I was jaded for a long time after that.”

His smile makes his eyes spark.

“A whole month, at least,” I say. “Forever in seven-year-old years.”

“Is that like dog years?”

“Yeah. But the opposite. I mean, time moves faster in dog years but slower in seven-year-old years.”

The silence that follows is broken by the sound of my stomach rumbling.

“Hungry?” Nick asks.

“I don’t know.” I frown, because a stomach rumbling is such a very ordinary thing, and this situation doesn’t feel like it should have ordinary things in it. “Maybe?”

I try to figure it out for a bit, but I don’t come to a conclusion. I don’t feel hungry, but I also haven’t eaten since… this morning? I was too pissed off earlier to think about food, but I should be hungry by now.

“Right. Get up,” he says, voice all business.

He turns on the light on his phone and sweeps it over the shelves.

“Hold this,” he tells me, and hands me the phone. For the next little while, he goes through the containers and picks out things to eat. Turkey slices and cheese. Hard-boiled eggs. There’s a container with cut melon cubes and another one with blueberries. There’s even a crate of bottled water. Only when he hands one of the bottles to me do I realize how thirsty I am.

We set everything up on the floor like we’re having a picnic.

After, he tries to call for help again, but there’s still nothing, so we settle back in in the darkness, sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder.

“You have dressing on your chin,” he says.

I wipe my fingers over it to check, but there’s nothing. “Dick,” I say.

He laughs. It peters out eventually. And then I miss it.

No matterhow hard I try, I can’t get back to sleep.

Nick does for a bit. He dozes off in small fits. His head falls against my shoulder. His breathing softens. He jerks and wakes up again.

The air keeps getting warmer.Not by a lot or all at once, but bit by bit, the fact that it’s so stuffy in here becomes a more often occurring notion. It’s uncomfortable no matter which way I turn myself. The air starts to have a taste. It shouldn’t, but it does. It’s faintly sour in my mouth.

I use my inhaler again.

It helps less this time.

Or maybe not at all.

I can’t tell.

I’m pretty surethe fridge is shrinking. It feels smaller. I know it isn’t. It can’t be. But every time I shift, there’s less room than I remember.

The battery iconon Nick’s phone turns red.

TWELVE

INDY