Page 56 of The Otherworld

I must have slept through the whole night. My stomach is growling, and my ribs still hurt like hell, but at least I feel human again. My headache has faded completely, and the swelling in my ankle has gone down. When I stand, I can almost put my full weight on it.

What I desperately need is a shower.

I cautiously make my way to the kitchen, where Orca is singing “Loch Lomond.” When I reach the doorway, I find her at the counter, mixing a bowl of dough. She’s wearing a white blouse tucked into a sage-green linen skirt that falls just below her knees. Her wild hair is woven into a thick braid that tumbles down her back and ends in a ribbon at her waist.

“But me and my true love—Adam!” She smiles when she sees me. “You’re awake. At last.”

I exhale a dry laugh. “Yeah. How long was I sleeping?”

“Oh, years. I’ve lost track.”

I give her a smirk like That’s not funny. “Hey, do you have a shower here?” I’m half-expecting her to say no, and that she has to heat water in pots on the stove to fill some vintage bathtub.

But to my relief, she nods. “Yes. Through that door across from Papa’s room. You might have to run the water for a few minutes before it gets hot.”

I nod. “Thanks. Can I borrow a clean shirt from your dad?”

“Of course. Take whatever you need. Papa won’t mind.”

I limp into his room and open the dresser drawers, taking a clean shirt and a pair of underwear. When I reach into the top drawer, my fingertips brush against something cool and metallic.

Orca is still singing in the kitchen, so I take the opportunity to pull out the metal object and turn it over in my hands.

It’s a small silver picture frame containing a wedding photo from the late seventies. Orca’s mother and father, I presume. She looks about Orca’s age, and Mr. Monroe must be at least ten years older than her. They’re standing arm in arm outside an old stone church—her in a white dress, him in a suit and tie. There’s something familiar about that stone archway behind them. I’ve seen it in downtown Anacortes, across from the bank.

Feeling intrusive, I tuck the photo frame back into the sock drawer and leave the room.

* * *

I’m not sure I’d call it “hot water,” but it feels good after being out in the woods for so long—a fact I keep forgetting but am starkly reminded of when I see myself in the mirror.

I look like hell. My face is discolored with bruises, slashed with a long cut from my eye to my jawbone, and swathed in the beginnings of a beard. I can’t remember the last time I went this long without shaving.

I grab her father’s razor and get to work. Apparently, shaving cream is not one of those “strange treasures” the supply man brings, so I do my best with soap and try not to add to the collection of cuts on my face. When I’m finished, my bruises stand out more, but it feels much better to be clean again.

Thanks to Orca’s homemade ointment, my wounds are beginning to heal, but my ribs are going to need rewrapping.

I find Orca still in the kitchen, working away. Whatever is baking in the oven makes the whole house smell like a childhood memory.

“Storm looks like it’s starting to clear up,” I say, leaning against the back of a chair.

“Mm-hmm.” Orca peers out the window as she scrubs the dishes. “It’s still raining, but it seems the wind has subsided. You can see the fog beginning to settle.” She sighs and dries her hands on a dishcloth, turning to face me. “Breakfast is almost—” She stops short, smiling as if noticing something new about me.

“What?”

“Your face.”

“Oh.” I shrug, feeling the edge of my jaw. “Yeah, it’s been a while since I shaved.”

Orca sidles up to me, a glint of wonder in her eyes. “Papa never shaves all his off,” she says, lifting her hand to touch my cheek.

I freeze up, stunned, because it’s such an intimate thing to do—but she doesn’t know it. Her fingertips are soft and warm, still damp from the dishwater, as she caresses the line of my jaw to my chin. She studies me with innocence in her eyes, like a child stroking the wing of a wounded songbird. Her touch turns my thoughts to gibberish.

“How are your ribs this morning?” she asks, letting her hand fall away.

“Uh… they still hurt pretty bad.”

“We should rewrap them. That’s what Papa’s medical books say to do. Here, take your shirt off. I’ll be right back.”

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