I slid the wallet back beneath the wardrobe, but a moment before I stepped out, I paused.
I picked it back up and removed the picture.
Because someone should remember him.
I brushed my thumb across their faces, then placed it in my pocket for safekeeping.
I ran to the bedrooms and rifled through drawers.
In Andre’s mother’s room I found a heavy fleece jacket and a pair of jeans that hung loose on my hips. At the bottom of the wardrobe, I uncovered a pair of red mittens.
I stared at them.
I sighed. I couldn’t walk out of here bare-handed.
Desperate times.
I dressed quickly, ridiculous mittens included.
Then I searched the house for anything useful.
There was a truck on the driveway. I knew it worked. Andre had driven me here after all.
But it made no difference. I couldn’t drive.
There was also a bike.
Sable had tried to teach me to ride when I was fourteen. When father had caught us outside, I had been locked in my room for three days without food.
But for at least 30 minutes, I had been able to stay up on the bike.
I tried to recall what she’d taught me.
I climbed on carefully, the bike wobbling beneath me. I took a deep breath.
“Balance is a state of mind,” I muttered. “I can do this.”
I placed my feet on the pedals.
And crashed into the side of the shed.
I swore — loudly.
It took me about an hour before I could stay upright without falling. An hour of scraped palms, shaky legs, and mutteredinsults under my breath. But eventually, something clicked. The wobble steadied. My body remembered enough to cooperate.
Finally, I made it down the driveway.
The road loomed ahead, long and empty in both directions. I slowed, feet scraping awkwardly against the ground as I tried to stop without tipping over.
I wasn’t sure which way to go.
“Just pick a direction, Seph,” I muttered.
And I started to ride.
The road was flat and well maintained — smooth enough that the bike didn’t fight me. I supposed I had Andre’s family to thank for that.
As I pushed forward, the rhythm of pedalling settled in, steady and almost meditative.
