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“I don't really have an appetite right now.”
“Are you feeling alright?”
“I'm a prisoner, Callum. I don’t think I'm ever going to feel alright.”
“I know, I just mean, are you feeling sick? Like, coming down with something?”
“I don't know. I haven’t had fresh air in like what? A month?” she guesses.
“About two weeks.”
“Gosh, seems so much longer. My chest feels so heavy. I feel like I'm suffocating down here. Do you think someone can die from not having fresh air?”
“I don't think you’ll die Lana, but I can crack that window open over there. It just might get a bit colder down here overnight,” I offer.
“It's fine. Forget it. I can't handle it being any colder.” I frown at her words and the thought of her shivering down here in the cold.
“I’ll bring you another blanket.”
She just nods and goes back to petting Henry and I leave to grab another blanket for her. When I return back to her I have an idea that will trigger a fight with Cole if he finds out, but I decide it’s worth it.
“Stand up.”
“What?” she asks, looking confused or maybe that's worry in her eyes.
“We’re going outside,” I explain.
“Wait, really? You’re really gonna let me go outside?” There’s no denying the excitement in her expression or tone.
“You need fresh air, don't ya?” Lana quickly stands and I unlock the chain from the wall but leave it connected to her ankle. I pick up the chain so it doesn't drag and lead the way. As we walk up the stairs I say, “Just don't make me regret this please.”
I lead Lana down the hall and through the living room to the front door. Before opening the door I hand her my thick brown jacket. “Put this on. It’s a pretty cold night.” Then I grab a large blanket and we walk outside. Lana takes a long deep breath with her eyes closed and releases it with a sigh. I find myself smiling as I watch her.
“Oh my God, this feels amazing,” she says with such joy.
“Come over here, have a seat.” I motion to the swinging bench on the porch. She walks over to it while looking like she’s drowning in my oversized coat and then sits on the bench. I sit down next to her and put the blanket over our legs.
“Nice swing you got,” she says.
“Yea, my grandfather built it. I loved it as a kid and I still do. I've spent a lot of nights sitting out here staring out into the sky wishing for a different life.”
“Did your wishes ever come true?” she asks intently.
“Not exactly,” I remark, looking up at the endless sky.
“So I guess I shouldn't bother wishing for freedom then.”
“I didn't say that. Just because my wishes didn't come true doesn't mean yours can't,” I add, looking at her.
She quickly looks away from me and gazes up.
“I wish I was a star then.”
“A star?” I ask bewildered.
“Yes. Look at them. They seem so free.”
“Are they though?” She looks at me with a raise of her eyebrow. “I see stars that are trapped in a big, dark prison. Shining bright until they lose their sparkle, fizzle out and die. The shooting stars, on the other hand, are the liberated ones, breaking free from their imprisonment and finding a new life. They are truly free,” I explain.
