Peter picks up the board, carries it across the roof, and lays it down again. This time it reaches to the sloped roof of a house, not a storefront. I don’t know why the plank doesn’t slide, but it stays in place as Peter again crosses it. I grit my teeth and follow, crawling again. On the other side, I see there’s a notch in the roof that holds the board. “You’ve done this before.”
He flashes me a smile, lifts up the board, and walks across the roof. I spread my legs for balance on the slope, and I waddle after him, awkward as a flightless bird. Claire dances along the peak.
Climbing from roof to roof, I try not to think about how badly I need to go home, about how I don’t know if my two saviors can save me, about the absent Missing Man or about the other scavengers or about Lost. Instead, I focus only on step after step across the shingles and roof tiles as they warm beneath the desert sun.
Chapter Nine
On a roof, we split a stale loaf of bread and eat as furtively as squirrels. Claire rifles through the bags in search of additional snacks, while Peter checks in each direction to be certain we haven’t been spotted. We don’t talk. I am so tense that when a seagull lands on the chimney, I slide down three shingles. After I catch myself, I toss the gull a bit of crust.
I wonder if this is what my life will be like if I fail to find a way home.
Hiding.
Scavenging.
Barely surviving.
More likely, the mob will catch me. Or Peter will grow bored with me, Claire will return to whatever life she had before I arrived, and I will be eaten by feral dogs. Or feral pigs. Or cows.
I have to find a way home.
After we eat, we hit several more houses and junk piles around the outskirts of Lost, and I begin to get the hang of scavenging, at least at a basic level. Certain items are easy to find, I learn: socks, hats, mittens, coats, keys, sunglasses, umbrellas, cell phones, balls. I locate a summer dress in dry cleaner’s plastic, which is a respectable find, but I don’t find a toothbrush or a decent pair of jeans or an entire sandwich. Bits of sandwich are easy, as are stray pretzels, crackers, chips...Most of them are coated in dust or mold. It’s quickly obvious that the loaf of bread was a lucky find. Claire had pounced on it like a cat on a mouse. And it’s equally obvious that the dead man’s house was a treasure trove, though I don’t want to return.
We scurry from house to house, pile to pile. Claire darts out first—a practice I object to until I see the rationale. Of all three of us, she’s the least likely for anyone to want to hurt. Plus she’s little, harder to see. Once she reaches the next bit of shelter, she beckons, and we dart after her. In my case, it’s more like lumbering than darting. Clearly, I shouldn’t have cancelled my gym membership.
Out here, on the farthest outskirts, the houses are spread apart so Peter doesn’t make us climb over the roofs. I’m grateful for that. I have scrapes on my palms and knees, and bruises pretty much everywhere else. On the plus side, I haven’t had a single encounter with a homicidal townie all afternoon. So I don’t complain. After a while, it even starts to be a little fun, a kind of wide-ranging treasure hunt. We continue to fill our backpacks until the sun dips low enough to kiss the horizon.
At last, Peter calls a halt.
“Nice haul,” he says approvingly.
I’m coated in sweat and dirt and grime, but I’ve scored multiple slivers of mostly used soap and a nice wash towel, in addition to a new dress. I feel strangely proud, even though I’ve stolen from a dead man and failed to find a way home. There’s an odd thrill to scavenging. I bask in Peter’s approval as if it’s warm sunlight.
“Now you don’t need me anymore,” he declares.
And like that, the feel of sunlight vanishes. “Yes! Yes, I do. I found a few pretzels, a towel, but no way home, and the townspeople still want me dead. If any had caught me—”
“Shh.” He puts his fingers to my lips. “You don’t need me—you’re merely needy.”
I swallow. Don’t speak.
“Others need me more,” he says. “Lost people wander into the void every day. If I don’t bring them out, they give into their despair and fade away. As much as I enjoyed spending the day with you—” His fingers move from my lips and brush my cheek. For an instant, I see something in his eyes—sadness? Longing? Need? “I have responsibilities.”
Never mind other lost people, I want to say. I want to beg him to stay, to keep me safe, to keep me distracted from realizing how trapped I am. “Are you coming back?”
“You and Claire will do fine on your own.”
“But...” I search for an excuse. “What about your vendetta?”
“You know the basics. You’ll survive fine without me.”
I am not nearly as confident. “I don’t even know how to find home—the house, I mean, the yellow house. And it’s nearly dark—”
He points over my shoulder, and I turn.
Dusk has washed away the distinction between shadows, I see the yellow house. “Oh.” Looking back at him, I try to think of another reason for him to stay. Before I can, I see his expression change, darker and harder. He catches my arm and pulls me down behind an overturned wheelbarrow. “What...” I begin.
He places a finger on my lips again. He’s close, inches away. I hear his breath, and I feel the warmth of his body. His muscles are tense.
