Page 17 of Praying for Rain

Make that two and a half more days.

All I have to do is not think about her for two and a half more days, and then I won’t have to think about her ever again.

I pop another pill while I wait for Wes to climb the ladder, just to make extra sure that shit stays locked up tight.

I take the bags from him as he climbs over the top of the ladder.

The tree house isn’t much. It’s basically just a rotting plywood box with a couple of dirty-ass beanbag chairs and an old boom box inside, but when I was a kid, it was Cinderella’s castle, Jack Sparrow’s pirate ship, and Wonder Woman’s invisible plane, all rolled into one.

The ceiling is so low that Wes doesn’t even bother trying to stand up. He simply crawls over to a beanbag chair and makes himself at home. He stretches his long legs out in front of him and crosses them at the ankles as he rummages through the grocery bags. His feet almost stick out the door. It reminds me of Alice in Wonderland when she grew too fast and got stuck in the White Rabbit’s house.

“So,” I say, plopping into the beanbag next to him as he concentrates on working that damn can opener that stabbed me in the back earlier, “you got anything in there that doesn’t look like dog food?”

Wes hands me one of the bags without looking up.

I pull out a stick of beef jerky and gesture toward the clunky radio with it. “Hey, do you want to listen to some music? I think I have my mom’s old Tupac CD in here. It’s not Justin Bieber, but …”

Wes smirks at my joke and pops a chunk of potato into his mouth. “Save your batteries. We won’t have power much longer.”

His statement wipes the smile right off my face.

Oh, right. Apocalypse. Yay.

I take in Wes’s dirty clothes as he starts pulling chunks of beef, carrots, and potatoes out of the can with his fingers like a starved raccoon. His messy hair. His total lack of personal belongings.

“So …” I pretend to look for a way to open the jerky package. “Where did you come from?”

“Here,” Wes says between bites.

I laugh. “You are so not from here. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’ve never seen you before.”

Wes gives me a look that says he does not appreciate being called a liar, then deadpans, “I lived here until I was nine. Then, I … moved around a lot.”

“Really? Do you still have family here?”

Wes shrugs and returns to his canned dinner.

“You don’t know? Who are you staying with?” I still haven’t touched my jerky.

Why am I so nervous to talk to this guy? He’s just a guy. Of manly age and stature. Okay, he’s a fucking man and I don’t know him and he has a gun and he’s currently my only source of food that isn’t a condiment.

“You.”

Wait. What?

“Ohhh no. You can’t stay with me. Are you fucking kidding? My parents would—”

“Not in there.” Wes gestures toward my house with a cube of beef pinched between his thumb and index finger. Then, he tosses it into his mouth and points toward the floor. “Out here.”

“Oh.” I relax a teensy, tiny bit. “I guess that’s okay.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Wes mumbles as he chews, plucking a carrot out of his can next.

“Where are your parents?” I ask, still trying to put all the pieces together.

Wes tosses back the wet orange vegetable. “I never met my dad, and my mom’s locked up.”

“Oh, damn. I’m sorry.”

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