Okay. No cops. No Seelie. That’s good. I didn’t want to hide any longer so, even though I thought I could be caught the second I poked my head aboveground again, I left the sewer.
The bad part?
Because I really did think I’d be caught, my brilliant plan never got any further than getting out of the sewer again.
What am I supposed to do now?
First things first. I get off the ground, wiping the gravel and the grime on my gloves off and onto the thighs of my dirty jeans. In the sunlight, I can see all the crap I’ve got on me—dirt and mud and oil and who knows what. I reach around, wiping my palms on my ass.
There.
Better.
A stray wind blows, sending my hair into my face. It stinks. Like really stinks. Oof.
The wind bites against my cheek, the strands of hair tickling my nose before I slap them away. It’s… it’s a little bit chilly out. That’s weird. It’s June. It must be even earlier than I thought for it to be so cool out in June.
At least my hoodie won’t stand out. My rat’s nest hair might, and the questionable stains that cover my poor jeans… not to mention my muddy, dirty slippers… but at least my clothes are weather appropriate and my gloves are hidden from view.
I’ll take it.
Besides, it’s not like I plan on sticking around here for people to start wondering what I’m doing lurking behind the back of the downtown shops. I might not have anywhere I can go just yet. Doesn’t mean I can stay here.
What to do? What to do?
I don’t have any family. My mom’s gone. I never knew my dad. My sister’s dead, and I totally pushed last foster parents away after her death. Besides, even if I wanted to go to the Everetts for help, they moved to a city more than six hours away by car—and that was before they split up.
All I have is Nine. And, after how big of an ass I made of myself, I’m not about to call him for help. I might have his true name now. After the way I commanded him to leave, I can’t bring myself to call him back, especially since it’s daytime now.
You know what sucks? It hits me that I didn’t stay in the freaking sewer so long because it was convenient. I stayed because I honestly didn’t have anywhere else to go.
I can only imagine how frustrating the search for me has got to be—and that’s if the hospital staff is still looking instead of writing me off as a bad bet. The sad truth is that, based on my history, I’ve never been able to call any place home. Apart from my time in Black Pine, I spent more time in Acorn Falls than anywhere else. No wonder they had the cops patrolling the streets in the quaint little town, almost as if they expected this would be where I ran off to.
I guess they were right.
Might as well go visit the last home I knew.
7
I had this crazy, reckless idea that I should head back toward the edge of town. It’s where the Everetts used to live, and the part of Acorn Falls that I remember the best.
With my ho
od up and my head down, I take the back streets, careful to avoid anyone who might get antsy and call the cops on me. Once I got away from the more crowded downtown, odds of being singled out get lower. I don’t loiter outside of any street in particular, keeping my walk slow and steady as if I’m just getting fresh air instead of being on the run.
My stomach starts to grumble a couple of hours into my trek across town. Eventually, I’m gonna have to figure out what to do about that. Bitching and moaning and wishing I hadn’t eaten the last of Nine’s bread isn’t gonna help me right now.
I keep walking.
After I hear the whispers of the few people passing me by, I stick to the trees. It seemed like a good idea. My hoodie is a more purple-y shade of maroon, my jeans a dark denim, and I don’t stand out among the trees that line the road. The shadows linger here, and it’s so much cooler in the shade, but it’s better than prancing out in the open in my slippers.
The trees are… odd, though. Not green. Not totally. Some of them are capped with leaves that are red, orange, even yellow. Dead leaves, scattered leaves, cover the dry ground. They crackle so loudly under my steps, I start to dance from brown patch to brown patch of dirt to avoid them in case someone else can hear me.
Then, when I finally duck out of the woods, cross three streets, and find the Everetts’ old house, I begin to think I’ve made a wrong turn somewhere.
It’s been six years. I know that. The Everetts haven’t lived here in ages. I guess I just thought that it would still be standing here, some tiny bit of the before time that could help ground me while I got my crap together.
The address is the same. The same 134 painted on the side of the mailbox posted by the curb. The same size house.