Yes, yes, they were. Jak knew that better than anyone. What was more precious than life-giving heat? “I can bring you more fish. How many?”
Driscoll ran his fingers down the sides of his mouth and over his beard, eyeing Jak in a way that made his muscles tense. “Bring me a pair of boots. These ones I’m wearing are old and worn, and I could use something warmer and lined with fur.”
Boots? He looked down at the boots he’d made for himself using pieces of his old shoes, skins and fur, stitched and wrapped together with long blades of grass. They did the job and kept his feet warm, but they were hardly something to trade. He looked at Driscoll’s boots. They looked fine to him. Jak wished he had boots like those instead of the ones he’d made using whatever he could find—boots that fell apart so often, he was always fixing something on them, or leaving one behind as he took a step in the deep piles of snow.
“If you bring me a pair of boots that I approve of, I’ll give you two boxes of matches.”
Jak’s heart picked up speed. Two boxes. That would get him through the winter and into spring. He’d come up with better ways to make boots. His mind started buzzing like cricket song, thinking about all the items that might work better than the ones he was using. He had the pocketknife that he used to make small holes, but using grass as thread wasn’t the best. It dried out and broke. He was always having to fix pieces that came apart. “Okay,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. The worst that could happen was that Driscoll didn’t like his work and didn’t give him the matches.
Driscoll looked pleased. “Good boy. Come with me and I’ll get you five matches for the fish.”
Jak paused before following Driscoll into the room next to the main one that he figured was where he slept. He stayed in the doorway as Driscoll walked to a dresser, opened the top drawer, and counted out five matches. He tried to block the drawer with his body, but when he moved just a little bit, Jak was able to see that there were two rows of large matchboxes inside. He had enough matches for ten winters. Jak tried not to feel angry. They were Driscoll’s matches and Jak was lucky the man was trading with him for five.
He moved his gaze from the closing drawer to the picture above the dresser. It was a drawing of men fighting and Jak stared at it for a minute. He’d played war with his toy soldiers when he lived with Baka, but the men in the picture were dressed in weird clothes nothing like the military gear his action figures had worn.
“The Battle of Thermopylae,” Driscoll said, stopping beside him in the doorway and looking back at the picture. “One of the most famous battles of all time. The Spartans held Thermopylae against invaders, a mountain pass of extreme strategic importance, for three days with a mere three hundred men.”
Driscoll had just said several words Jak didn’t know. He’d like to go over them—collect them—but he also wanted to leave. “The Spartans?” Jak glanced at Driscoll and his eyes were shiny like he might be about to cry. But happy tears. Maybe he liked fighting. Maybe he liked war. Maybe he liked living this way. Maybe that’s why Jak felt so funny around him all the time. Jak backed up two steps, putting more space between them.
Driscoll didn’t seem to notice as he nodded his head up and down, up and down. “The greatest warriors of all time,” he said. “They were bred for battle. Tested to know they were men who would never give up, despite the most dire odds. It’s said that the only time a spartan soldier got a break from training was during a war.” Driscoll laughed, and Jak gave a tight smile, though he didn’t really u
nderstand the joke.
“But see, survival is the greatest training of all. It’s that inexplicable something that makes a man keep going despite the obstacles before him, despite miserable conditions, or impossible feats. That’s the thing that makes the most fearsome of all warriors. Any strong, dexterous man can learn to wield a weapon, but it’s an extraordinary soldier who never gives up. Ever.”
Jak backed up a few more steps into the main room and Driscoll followed him, his eyes still shiny. “We must study history to forge the future. Ancient people understood war so much better than we do today. They . . . they . . .” His hands flew around for a few seconds like he was trying to grab the right words from the air. His eyes met Jak’s. “They understood that sacrifices must always be made for the common good of society. They knew that without sacrifice, humanity would fall to selfishness, greed, and ruin. One is never as important as all. That’s what’s brought us to this point, you see?”
No, Jak didn’t see. Not at all. But he nodded to make it seem as if he got what Driscoll was going on about. He thought it must be about the war. Driscoll knew much more about what was happening in town, in the USA, in . . . That’s all Jak knew of the world, other than it was round and people talked in different languages if you traveled far enough to find them.
“People are so bad, Jak. So bad and selfish and immoral. They don’t learn. They never learn, and we all pay for their mistakes.”
Jak stared at him. Was that true? Were people bad? Some were, he knew that. People had taken his baka away. Tried to kill him. Made it so he had to live in the faraway woods by himself. But some were good, weren’t they? His baka had been good. She’d tried to pretend she didn’t like him all the time, but he could tell she did anyway. She’d cared for him and taught him things, and looked proud when he did a good job at something or another. She’d given him books, and words, and numbers, and orange drinks with fizzy bubbles. But now, he was confused and wanted to go. “Okay. I’ll be back then with the boots.”
Driscoll blinked, then his eyes moved over Jak’s head, his brow scrunching. “What?” He gave his head a shake. “Yes. Boots. Right. Yes, bring me a pair of boots. And I’ll give you a box of matches.”
“Two boxes,” Jak corrected. “You said you’d give me two boxes.”
Driscoll waved his hand as though there was no difference between one or two. But he couldn’t mean that. The difference between plenty of matches and not enough was life . . . or death. “Two boxes. Yes, fine.”
Jak nodded, already turning toward the door. “Bye,” he said as he slipped outside into the snow. He turned his face, small bullets of icy hail hitting his cheek. A whipping wind had picked up. He should ask Driscoll if he could stay for a while instead of making the walk home. His face already hurt and his boots were coming loose, he could feel it with each step. He didn’t want to let Driscoll know that though or he might back out of their trade. And anyway, even as the thought of staying drifted through his mind, the whispery feelings were telling him to go, and he was moving away from the house. Away from Driscoll and his wild eyes. Away from the man who made him feel like prey, even though he didn’t know why.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The girl named Harper was snoring. Loudly.
Lucas watched her where she was sitting on his floor, her head leaned forward, and her mouth wide open. He took the moment to stare at her without her knowing, to let his eyes travel free.
It’s you, he thought. It felt like a bee was trapped in his chest.
She was the baby in the photo he’d worn around his neck for so long. Was that why the low-down whispers stirred whenever she was around? Why he felt like he knew her? He reached for the necklace out of habit, his hand falling away. Empty. Still staring. She was the small smiling girl with the pink bow in her brown curls.
How could it be? It shocked him. Although so much shocked him. Why wouldn’t it? A jolt of unhappiness went through him, but he pushed it down. For now. While she was there. The girl made him jumpy. Or . . . no, not jumpy. It was the opposite. What is the opposite of jumpy? She made him still. Like he wanted to stop and wait and watch until he could understand her.
Still wasn’t the right word either, and he thought about that for a minute as he put his jacket on, trying to be loud so she would wake. She let out another snore, which almost made him smile, except he was too tense to smile.
He turned away for a minute, but couldn’t help turning back. He wanted to look at her. She’s beautiful. But could he trust her? He rubbed his head. The woman with red hair, who had taken her clothes off for him and kissed his mouth, had been beautiful too. Not as beautiful as the girl drooling in her sleep on his floor, but still beautiful. But anyway, they were different, right? He knew this woman. Didn’t he? He sort of felt like he did.
A piece of her dark hair fell over her face. The color of chestnuts in the sunshine. Deep shiny brown. His hand itched to push it back, to run his fingers through it and find out if it was as silky as it looked. To touch. To smell. Her eyes were closed now, but he could picture them open and staring at him like she didn’t know what he might do next.