Page 13 of Brood
Today, I’m rereading a book about a pioneer family struggling to survive against the ravages of nature in the world as it used to be.
I try to imagine what it looked and felt like. The endless expanse of sky. Wide-open spaces. Wind and rain and snow and sunshine. Grass. Animals.
We have old photos that help me visualize, but otherwise, it’s a guessing game. I’ve never known anything except the floors and ceilings and walls of the Refuge and the few hundred people who live on this level.
I’ve set my tablet down and closed my eyes as I try to conjure a mental picture of a hailstorm. I’m so focused, I barely notice when the door opens. It’s not until I hear someone clear his throat that I pop my eyes open.
“Oh,” I say, sitting up abruptly. “Hi.”
Will has stepped into the room, and he’s frowning down at me. “Are you napping?”
He sounds surprised. Disapproving.
I force myself not to scowl at him. “No. I wasn’t napping. I was reading.”
“Your eyes were closed.”
“I was thinking. Trying to picture something in the book. Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t.” He stops staring at me at last and strides through the bedroom archway to pull out a clean shirt from the closet. There’s a big dark smear on the one he’s wearing. Oil or grease or something. “I was surprised you’d sleep in the middle of the day.”
“I wasn’t sleeping! And even if I were, why would that matter? This is my break time. I’m on the kitchen crew. We start early and work late, but we have a few hours off in the middle of the day.”
He’s unbuttoned his dirty shirt and is now pulling it off his arms. His back is as nice looking as his chest is. Smooth and sculpted with a good bone structure and leanly developed muscles. “I know where you work,” he mutters. “And I know what your schedule is.”
“Then why are you surprised I’m resting?”
He’s annoyed with me. I can sense it on his face even though his features are as stiff and stoic as normal. “I didn’t expect you to be here. That’s all.”
“Oh. Well, I am.”
He pulls on his clean shirt and buttons it quickly. He’s not looking at me as he asks, “Are you always this prickly?”
“Prickly?” The word comes out with an indignant gasp. “Prickly?”
He glances at me over his shoulder. Doesn’t respond.
“I’m not prickly. Ask anyone.”
“I have.”
“You have? You’ve asked around about me?”
“Of course I have.” He’s dressed now. He smooths down his tousled hair and beard. “You think I wouldn’t have asked about you?”
Upon brief reflection, it does make sense he would have asked about me. After all, we never said a word to each other before our spousal ceremony. I knew who he was because he’s a council chief, but he would have no reason to notice me. He probably wanted to know what I was like before he agreed to marry me.
“What did they say about me?” I ask in a milder tone.
“They said you were compliant and hardworking and easy to get along with. They said you’ve never made any trouble. They said you’re good-natured and respect authority and would be an excellent spouse for a council chief.”
“Oh.” Everything he’s said is good—things I should like to hear about myself—but for some reason, it sounds like he’s describing a stranger. I don’t care for it.
“One person said you’re too emotional but that it doesn’t get in the way of your duties. Not a single person mentioned that you’re prickly.”
“I’m not prickly!” The brief interlude of understanding and curiosity vanishes in another surge of resentment. I drop my feet back to the floor since I feel strangely vulnerable reclining on the lounge. “Stop calling me that.”
“How would you suggest I describethis?” He waves his hand in my direction, the gesture clearly encompassing the way I’m behaving right now.
