The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet 1)

I’d washed in paddling pools left on front lawns. I’d stripped and scrubbed my filthy, scrawny body, diligently cleaning between every toe, every finger, and even my belly button. Crystal clear water was left a murky, muddy brown ready to be explained by confused parents and wailed over by angry kids.

I hoped they knew that even though I was a pest to them, their belongings were a godsend to me. Their food was appreciated. Their deck chairs highly rated. And the paddling pools wrenched utmost gratefulness from every bone.

I’d never had a bath at Mclary’s—unless I sneaked a dip in the pond—but then I’d end up smelling of algae and duck shit and be beaten for it anyway.

Paddling pools were much better, and I despised the feeling of slipping back into rank, grubby clothes after scrubbing so clean. I hadn’t gotten around to stealing a new wardrobe just yet, but soon. Very soon.

Clothes were yet more items on the long mental checklist I kept adding to. I was thankful for my good memory because without skills to write what I needed, I couldn’t afford to forget anything vital.

During daylight hours, I rested out of sight or wandered streets unvisited by locals, going over my upcoming vanishing act back into the forest.

Occasionally, my thoughts tripped back to Della, and I’d stop short, wondering if she was safe. Was she fed, clean, warm? Had she forgotten all about me?

The hatred in my heart slowly faded, leaving behind an uncertainty that I’d done the right thing.

On the third night, I was tempted to return to the house with the bay windows and welcoming blue paint to see if she was happy. I let my thoughts convince me that I was responsible for her future even though that was an utter lie.

She was the daughter of my enemies, and I shouldn’t care about someone who had such tainted blood running in their veins.

Besides, she wasn’t my responsibility.

She was never supposed to get mixed up in my life.

She was better away from a kid who didn’t have a plan apart from staying hidden, staying alive, and figuring out what he wanted to become.

Did I want to be Ren? The kid with no last name, no parents, no home? Or did I want to be someone else? Someone who had every right to walk down neat streets and sit at fancy restaurants?

Someone who was someone not something.

I did want that, but I also wanted more.

I couldn’t explain it, but whenever I looked at the treeline on the outskirts of town, the itch inside built until I physically scratched with the desire to disappear inside it.

I wanted twigs cracking beneath my shoes and grass swaying around my legs. I wanted the reward of hard living because every day was sweeter for having survived with no one and nothing.

Perhaps I was punishing myself, or maybe I’d lost all trust in people.

Either way, on my fourth night, I found myself in front of a camping store in the middle of the shopping district of the sleepy little town.

My fingers smudged the glass as I pressed my nose up and stared past the streetlight reflections to the tempting merchandise beyond.

Tents and sleeping bags and everything I’d ever need to turn the wilderness into my home.

It didn’t take me long to figure out how to break in, spying the back delivery door with a flimsy lock and no reinforcement. All it took was a twist of my dull blade and the mechanism gave up, swinging the door open with a whisper of invitation.

No alarm shattered the night.

No security guard grabbed me by the scruff of the neck.

I spent the rest of midnight wandering aisles, staring at pictures on packets and squinting at words I didn’t understand.

I tested the weight of tents and camping stoves. I snatched sharp knives and Swiss army blades and stashed them deep in my pockets. I stole a foldable saw, small hammer, and a handy toolkit with screw drivers, pliers, and other miniature hardware I’d no doubt need.

Scooping up two first-aid kits complete with everything from needles to painkillers, I gathered a pile of water purifiers, strange dried food, bendable plates, cups, and cutlery, and finally, after much deliberation, I chose the smallest one person tent I could find that weighed less than Della.

Trading my dirty backpack, I upgraded to a cleaner one with waterproof flaps and hardwearing zippers. Khaki green with navy blue stitching, it fit my tent, sleeping bag, and everything else I needed with plenty of space left over for food.

Once I’d exhausted my checklist, I headed toward the clothing racks and helped myself to two of everything.

Two long sleeves. Two t-shirts. Two undershirts. Two trousers. Two belts. Two jumpers. Most were too big, but they were well-made and warm and would last me a lifetime if I took care of them.