The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet 1)

I held my head high with arrogance when people stared at me and saw a kid not yet a man—a boy who would surely die if left alone and never know how wrong they were.

I liked being underestimated and enjoyed having a secret they didn’t know.

What I didn’t like were the men whose eyes lit up when their gaze slid from me to Della waddling beside me on her tiny toddler legs. What I didn’t like were the cold glowers from women who judged me and pitied Della and believed I was the very same vermin that Mrs Mclary thought me to be.

The hairs on the back of my neck never relaxed from living close to people I didn’t trust. My hackles stayed up, so when I crawled into bed at night, I was more exhausted than I’d ever been in the forest.

It all came to a head one night when lights flipped on and the door leading to family rooms above cracked open, and for the first time, we were at risk of being caught.

We had to make a choice.

Squatting in people’s basements was just asking to be separated and sent to Social Services. So what if snow banks had gathered outside or snowflakes stuck together so heavy even the leafless trees bowed under their weight?

We couldn’t keep doing this.

I couldn’t keep doing this.

Luckily, I’d been smart and kept our gear tightly packed. Instead of setting up the tent and sleeping bag, I’d hidden us behind some cardboard boxes and used the musty smelling blankets found in the corner.

All we had to do was yank on our boots and bolt.

Whoever’s house this belonged to clomped down the steps as I ripped the backpack off the floor and shoved it through the broken window. Scooping Della from the nest of blankets, I pushed her after it into the snow, then hauled myself up and out.

Instantly, the wind chewed through our jackets and gnawed on our naked hands and face. Della cried out as snow flurries danced in front of our eyes, obscuring our path, turning everything foggy and white.

A voice shouted behind us but we ignored it.

Working fast, I shrugged into the backpack and tore Della from the snow.

I wouldn’t be able to run far but at least we hadn’t been caught.

At least, we were still together.

* * * * *

That night was one of the worst and best of our lives.

Worst because we trekked through one of the coldest storms that winter. Worst because by the time I stumbled onto our new temporary home, Della shivered and shook with a cold, and not just the temperature.

And the best because, although we’d had to flee our last hidey-hole, the one we found to replace it was so much better.

I hadn’t realised how close to the outskirts of town we’d been and only a few miles down the road, an old farmhouse rose from snow and ice, beckoning us closer.

I avoided the house even though no lights burned and no chimney puffed smoke, and carried Della into the barn farther down the gravel driveway.

The smells of hay and manure had faded, hinting that this farm hadn’t been worked in a while. It made me sad to think of untended fields and forgotten livestock but grateful that the chances of being caught were slim.

Sneaking deeper into the barn, I deposited a sneezing Della onto the straw-covered floor and set about making an igloo out of brittle hay bales. It didn’t take long, and the moment I spread out the sleeping bag and placed a piece of tarp over the entrance to our hay cave, the temperature warmed and the howling wind muffled thanks to the thermal properties of the dried grass.

The next morning, Della was achy and shivery, and I knew we weren’t going to be leaving anytime soon. The supplies and first-aid kits I’d stolen didn’t have soft Kleenexes for her runny nose or stuff to stop her coughing.

The storm had passed, so I left her tucked up tight and explored the farm in search of food and better medicine.

I didn’t want to approach the house, but I had no choice if I wanted to ensure Della fought the virus as fast as possible. With a knife in my hand, just in case another man like Mclary lived here, I crept up the veranda and peered into dirty windows.

Nothing.

No furniture, no people, no knickknacks or signs of inhabitants.

It was abandoned.

And ours for the taking.

The front door was unlocked as I strolled in with shoulders braced and knife at the ready. I explored the three bed, one bath wooden farmhouse, doing my best not to see similarities with the Mclary’s home but struggling.

The lounge was big with a large stain on the hardwood floor, hinting a coffee table had once lived there and someone had spilled something. The bathroom was peeling yellow with soap scum embedded in the claw foot bath. And the bedrooms were sad with their drooping curtains and mouse skeletons.