Page 32 of Juniper Unraveling

“Infected?” It’s clear he’s talking about Six, and I’m damn curious to know what he knows.

“Much worse. If you should come across him, you’re to shoot first and ask questions later.”

His warning turns my blood cold—ice cold. Aside from the small bit of self-defense he’s taught me, and the lessons with the sling, he’s never encouraged me to take a life.

Never.

“What is it that you fear about him, Papa?”

His gaze wanders everywhere except on me, as he shakes his head. “No more questions. Remember what I told you. I’ll see you at supper.”

Without another word, he makes his way downstairs and out the front door.

For a moment, I stand there, absorbing the last five minutes. Everything he’s said doesn’t make sense to me.

I continue on down into the kitchen, where the bright sun shines in through the windows. The refrigerator has been running a good two hours with daylight, so it’s safe to open it now. Every night it shuts down, but dropping the temperature inside before dusk allows the food to stay cold enough through the night. From inside, I grab an egg from the shelf, a jar of fig jam, and the jug of melon juice I made from fruit from the garden. Because we live on rations, I’ll offer mine to Six, so as not to rouse suspicion from Papa.

Closing the door, I gasp to find Six standing there, and the egg falls from my hand.

Six snatches it up before it hits the floor, and I exhale a sigh of relief when he hands it back to me.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile.

At that, his shoulders twitch as if something moves through him, and he drops his gaze, shuffling across the room toward one of the kitchen chairs, which he falls into.

Embarrassed, perhaps?

“Sit tight. I’ll get you something to eat.” From the cupboard, I nab a glass and pour him some of the melon juice, setting it in front of him. Within seconds, he sucks it down, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“More?” I ask, holding up the half full jug.

He steadies the glass as I fill it again, and this time, drinks it slower.

The stove’s electric burners glow a dark red, and I set the pan over the largest of the four, allowing the ceramic to heat, before cracking an egg into it. It sputters and fries, while I slice the bread I baked yesterday and spread the jam onto three slices—two for him, one for me.

I heat a kettle of water on another burner and set out two cups, scooping the dried coffee into a paper funnel. Szolen has a number of California buckthorn plants, and the seeds inside the berries make for a great coffee. Far better than chicory root, in my opinion. These are from last year’s harvest, and there’s still an abundance stored in the cupboards.

Once the egg is cooked, I flip it onto a plate beside the bread and attend the whistling kettle that lets me know the water has boiled. I pour the hot water over the coffee, taking in the scent, and do the same for the second cup.

Six finishes the last of the melon juice, as I set down the coffee and breakfast for him then nab the bread and coffee for myself, taking a seat across from him. With the same fascination as before, I watch him devour the food, the way he foregoes the utensils I set out for him and uses his fingers.

Blowing steam from the coffee, I hold the cup to my mouth, and slurp the hot liquid that heats my chest as it slides toward my empty stomach. Small nibbles of bread soak up the coffee, filling the hollow in my gut. I’ll have to gather extra food for Six, if he’s going to stay a while, since one slice of bread isn’t going to keep me full until supper every day. Not with a morning full of chores in between.

Six lifts the mug of coffee to his lips and sips.

The cup falls from his palms, rattling the table as it bounces off into his lap, before clanging to the floor.

“Oh, my God!” Setting my cup down, I scramble to the sink for a towel, soak it with cool water, and rush to his side.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t so much as flinch, while the scalding liquids seep into his T-shirt and across his lounge pants.

I palpate the soaked fabric with my finger and, at the sting to my skin, draw back and shake off the scorching burn.

Six doesn’t move, at all.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”