Текст книги "The Star Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

–stealing our stuff.

“Get away from that!” I yell, following in Tawni’s wake. I realize where the kids came from when they leap on the wall, climbing it like spiders. Except it’s not the wall they’re climbing; rather, the rope ladders strung along the stonework.

Chapter Fourteen

Tristan

My palms are sweaty as I stare at the screen. I don’t know why, but I’m nervous. I can tell Roc is nervous too, because he’s biting his nails. My anger at my father is gone, and I’m just worried about what he’s going to say, what he’s going to threaten. Like he might tell me to come home or he’ll bomb the crap out of the other Realms. The only thing is: I am home. Or at least more home than I was up there, in the Sun Realm.

I feel sweat trickle from my armpits and beneath my knees and I try to calm my nerves by gripping the table. This is one time I need to be strong. In this instance, being angry is better than being timid. I can’t stop thinking about the press announcement. I don’t care that he lied about me, but why did he have to bring my mom into this? Why now? Righteous anger rises in my chest once more because I know the answer: to get to me. Because he knows that dragging my mother’s name through the mud once more will piss me off. And for some reason, he thinks that will help him in some way.

I’m staring at the table, but I feel the screen change from black to white. When I turn to look, Roc’s already gazing at it, waiting. His now-bitten fingernails have moved to his lap and it almost looks like he has to pee.

And then the nightmare is made real, as my father’s face appears on the screen. Away from the crowds and the press, he looks much older, age lines surrounding his eyes and mouth. Gray flecks pepper his short, light-blond hair. He’s getting old, having turned forty-two earlier in the year. Less than two decades away from the average life expectancy for males in the Moon Realm. But he’s not in the Moon Realm. Sun dweller males get to live for another six to ten years, averaging sixty-five years old on their deathbeds.

His eyes are cold, black, as if the blue pigment I inherited from him has been darkened by a life of sins. His lips curl into a smile, but it’s not real.

“Ah, Tristan, my son. It’s been a while. How are you?” My heart pounds rapidly and my breaths become ragged, but I clench my face so I don’t show my discomfort.

“As you well know, I’m in my bed, recovering from the ordeal of trying to find my mother,” I say, not trying to hide my sarcasm.

He laughs, deep and throaty and repugnant, and hot blood churns through my veins. I’m a coward because of it. If we weren’t separated by miles of rock and cables and video screens, I’m not sure it would be anger I’d feel.

“I see your little adventure has added to your charming wit. And I also see that you brought your servant boy, just like I asked you to.” His voice is even, as if we’re just having a friendly father/son conversation, but beneath the natural timbre of his voice I can feel an icy cold. Even when he knows he can’t touch me, he’s trying to show his control over me—that his words are commands, to be obeyed by any who hear them, especially his own son.

“He’s not a servant anymore,” I growl. “And he has a name: Roc.”

“Tsk, tsk, Tristan. Have I taught you nothing? Getting emotionally attached to the help? I warned you about that.”

“I learned nothing from you. Except what not to do,” I say, forcing the grit out of my voice. Anger is okay, but I need to control it. Need to show him he can’t get to me—no matter what.

“Anyway, enough chitchat. I can already see you don’t want to do this the easy way. I requested this conference because I want to right some past wrongs. Make amends, so to speak. No, no, don’t worry, this is not a deathbed thing—I’m far from my grave.” There’s a smile on his face, like he thinks he’s funny. I just stare at him. “I requested that Roc attend because he is involved. More than involved, really. He is the topic. Well, technically you both are.”

My mind spins as I wonder what Roc could possibly have to do with anything. I don’t mean that in a bad way; it’s just that my father has never had anything to do with Roc’s life, other than to order him around like a slave. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Roc’s hands clenched under the table, his knuckles white. I can tell he wants to look at me, but is afraid to remove his gaze from my father, as if by doing so, he’ll open himself up to an attack.

“Keep Roc out of this,” I say, surprised at how venomous I sound.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I feel bad about lying, and I just want to make it right.” His words are remorseful, but his tone is not. He’s not even trying to make his lie believable. “I did something a long time ago, something I’ve kept hidden.”

“Out with it!” I demand, slamming my fist on the table.

Even my father, the master politician, is unable to hide his shock at my outburst. His face flinches slightly, like he has a tic, but then returns to his normal, unreadable, placid expression. “Patience, my son.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But it’s true. Surely not even you can deny that. Flesh and blood and DNA.”

“You are my father only biologically,” I say. “In love, I never had a father.”

“Spin it any way you want, son, it is of no concern to me. But back to why we’re here. The truth. Do you remember the day Roc was born?” He shakes his head and chuckles. “Of course not, how silly of me. You were only a day old, as pink and helpless as a piglet. Well, it was a good day. A day in which I buried a secret that could have destroyed me—all of us. The Nailin tradition.”

My head is throbbing, perhaps from the anger pumping through my skin, my bones, my blood. Without thinking, I raise a hand to my forehead and start to massage it furiously. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s fear. Despite the strength of my anger, I can’t drive away the fear of what he’s about to tell us. I know it will be bad—with my father it always is.

“I couldn’t let something so insignificant destroy something so grand, now could I? No, of course not. So I did what I had to do. As soon as the child was delivered, I ordered the doctors from the room. I wanted it to be personal, because the situation was personal. At least to me it was. So I used my own bare hands, curled them around her throat—I could feel her pulse thrumming under my fingertips—squeezed hard, hard, harder, harder, until the pulse weakened, died. She died.”

“What?” For a moment I’m confused. Clearly my father murdered someone, but who? Who were we talking about? It all comes rushing back. Do you remember the day Roc was born? I gasp, as the horror of his tale splits me in half, spilling my heart and my guts and everything out of my body. At least that’s how it feels. Roc’s mom didn’t die giving birth to him. She was murdered by my father. I’m shaking and the tears are coming and they’re like a train and I can’t stop them. But I must. I must, for Roc’s sake. I need to be there for him now, like never before. And I can’t be a whimpering mess in a ball on the floor if I want to be there for him. I let the anger take over, surging through me until I am the anger. My face is contorted with rage, but I don’t care. “She didn’t die; you murdered her.”

“Call it what you want, but the end result is the same.”

To my right, Roc’s body is slack, all fear and nervousness and emotion gone from it. His head is slumped into his chest, his eyes are closed, his arms are loose at his sides. He almost looks dead. Inside, I think he is.

I face my father again and I realize that if he was here in person, and not just an image on a screen, that I’d kill him. For the first time in my life, the idea of killing appeals to me.

He’s grinning, which should make me even angrier, but for some reason it doesn’t, and I pause, trying to figure something out. Something’s not right, I tell myself. Of course not, you idiot, nothing’s right, I reply to myself. No, not that. It’s something else. He’s not done yet. Even as I think the words, I know they’re true. My father’s grin widens as he sees the recognition in my eyes. My head churns through all his grotesque words, trying to latch onto the right ones:

Roc…is involved…he is the topic...you both are.

Do you remember the day Roc was born?

You were only a day old, as pink and helpless as a piglet.

…it was a good day…I buried a secret that could have destroyed me—all of us. The Nailin tradition.

Nooooo! My mind has put it all together, but I scream again and again in my head, refusing to believe it. No! No! No!

But he won’t let it go—has to keep talking, like he always does. “I only gave the bitch what she asked for. I would think that would make you happy, considering who you keep company with. She wanted me—who was I to deny her? It’s not my fault she got pregnant, although I was quite tickled when she gave birth the day after your mother.”

His words are like darts, each one penetrating deeper into my heart. I don’t know how to speak at a normal volume anymore. Can only scream. “You liar! You raped her! You killed her! I hate you!”

Roc abruptly stands, his motions jerky as he steps past the chair, shoving it under the table. His eyes are moist as he staggers from the room, slamming the door behind him.

“I. Hate. You.” I spit the words out, one at a time, like I’m trying to eject a foul taste in my mouth. The image of my father smiling blinks over and over in my mind as I stride through the door and away from him.

* * *

I lie in bed staring at the rough ceiling without really seeing it. I want to be out looking for Roc, but they won’t let me. Ben said I would just get lost too, and then they’d have to find us both. Ben’s lying on the bed next to me, his injured leg elevated on a couple of pillows. He doesn’t try to talk to me, for which I am glad. He said I could take as long as I need before we talk about what happened with my father. But from the way Roc charged out of the room and the way I was shaking with anger and sadness when I emerged, I think he knows it’s something bad.

Roc is my half-brother. Of that I am certain. Although my father is not one to be truthful very often, in this case the truth served his purpose so he went with it. From the smile on his face at our reaction, I know in this case he relished the truth. And who knows how many other half-brothers I have out there. Knowing my father, there could be dozens. Dozens of motherless children. Dozens of dead mothers.

I close my eyes. All these years…

I’ve considered Roc to be my brother all these years, but in a loyalty sense. In a friendship sense. But it seems our bond is built of more than just shared experience. We share a father. I feel bad for Roc right away, because now he’s stuck with my father, which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, and certainly not on my best friend. We share the Devil as our father.

The question that I can’t seem to answer, though, is why did he reveal this to us? Why to me? Why to Roc? My worst fears were that he would threaten me through those I care about, but that didn’t happen. There is seemingly no purpose to what he did. It’s as if he did it just to…spite me, to break my spirit. Perhaps he thinks it will drive a wedge between Roc and me, thus creating chaos in my life. Maybe he believes in his sick and twisted mind that I’ll give up on the cause, go into hiding somewhere, or even return to him. He’s so arrogant he might just think that.

But I won’t. He’s only succeeded in lighting a fire in my belly, one that won’t be extinguished until he’s destroyed and his power usurped.

I open my eyes and roll my head to the right, where I can see Ben, who looks like he’s sleeping. On the floor is a piece of paper. Roc’s drawing. The side with the portrait of Tawni is face down, leaving the drawing of the woman who is half his mom and half my mom revealed. Not just my mom—his stepmom.

It’s weird, how none of it makes sense at first, but then all of it seems to make sense. That he always felt like my brother, always felt like my mom’s son. Us playing, laughing, growing up together. The only part that doesn’t feel right is that a guy who turned out as honest, caring, and awesome as Roc should have a father like mine. I guess that gives me hope that I’ll turn out all right in the end.

A nasty thought pops into my head and I squeeze my eyes shut again, trying to make it go away. But it won’t, not until I think about it, so I let it in slowly, playing it around in my mind. Could my mom have known Roc was her stepson? Is that why she always treated him the way she did? My initial reaction is No way, José; my mom, the kind, loving person I grew up with, would never do that, would never keep such a secret from us. But then again, I never thought she would leave me alone with my father, no matter how bad things got for her.

I pound my forehead with the heel of my hand. I hate these thoughts. My anger should be turned on my father, not on my mother. This is exactly what he wants—for me to doubt things, to doubt my mother, to doubt myself. I’m playing right into his hands. If my mother left, then she had a damn good reason, one that was for the good of everyone involved, including me. She wouldn’t do something like that, and she wouldn’t keep a secret from us, like the one my father revealed today.

“She didn’t know,” I say out loud, opening my eyes and trying out the words to see how they sound.

“Who didn’t?” Ben asks, his own eyes blinking open.

I glance at him. I’m ready to talk about it—at least as ready as I’ll ever be.

“My mother,” I say. I tell him everything, the whole dark and twisted story. I even tell him how I felt, about Roc’s reaction, about my father’s smug smile. By the end my vision is blurry and my cheeks wet, and for a moment I’m embarrassed, using the back of my hand to wipe away the tears, turning my face away from Ben. Adele’s father. My judge. My jury.

“I don’t think she knew either. Your mother,” Ben says.

“How can you say that? You don’t even know her.” The words come out angrier than I planned and I feel like I’m defending my mom, even though what he said was what I wanted to hear.

“Call it a hunch,” Ben says, ignoring my tone. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

He’s such a genuine guy that I can’t hold onto my anger. “It’s okay. I suppose it’s better to know the truth, even when it’s hard.”

“Those are mature words.”

My embarrassment waning, I turn back to face him. His green eyes are shining with the moisture in them. While I was protecting some silly requirement for manly pride, he was crying, too, maybe not as much as me, but still. It makes me feel better. He’s the leader of the Resistance, strong, a fighter, a hero to his daughter. And becoming a hero to me. A true man. So if I’m crying and he’s crying, then maybe I’m just a little bit like him. For the first time since the meeting with my father, I have hope again. That there’s good in the world. That evil can be vanquished. And that I can help to do it.

“Let’s go find Roc,” he says.

Chapter Fifteen

Adele

Without time to consider my options, I close the distance to the rope ladder in three long strides and leap onto it just before someone starts pulling it up. My knuckles scrape against the stone block wall as the rope starts to swing, but I force my fingers to hold on. I hear Tawni shout below me but I don’t look down as I feel the earth moving away from my feet.

Instead, I peer up and see a set of eyes attached to a small body looking down at me. A boy, older than the crying kid, but no more than Elsey’s age. He’s hanging onto the rope ladder casually, using just his knees, as if he does it all the time. And in his hands: a slingshot, which he’s already pulling back.

I duck sharply, afraid to let go of the rope, but making sure my eyes are protected.

Twang! The slingshot sings and I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder as the stone deflects hard off my collar bone. “Arrr,” I growl, desperately fighting off the urge to massage the wound with one of my hands. It hurts like hell, a stinging pain that shoots through my nerves like a fire cracker.

I grind my teeth so hard that my jaw starts to hurt. But it takes my mind off my shoulder and I start to climb, keeping my head down and starting with one hand up, then one foot; the other hand—the other foot. All the while the rope is careening side to side and being pulled upward by an unseen force. I repeat my climbing cycle twice more and then risk another glance up.

Another kid, a girl this time, is staring back at me, as if she was waiting for me to look up. Her hands hold a tube to her lips like a straw. Not a straw—a pea shooter, like we used to play with when we were kids. I hear a sharp exhalation of breath and feel a pin-like prick on my cheek.

This time I can’t help but to raise a hand to my injury, and I feel the warmth of fresh blood streaming down my face. That filthy, little… I think, once more lowering my head to climb, moving faster, less worried about falling, more focused on getting my hands on the brats who are attacking me. A few more stings pepper my body in various places—my ear, my neck, the crown of my head—but I ignore the pain, determined to—

Thud!

Something heavy crashes into my skull and sparkling fairy stars dance before my eyes. My head suddenly feels heavy and my hands too tired to grip the rope. In the back of my mind I know I’m pretty high up and that a fall could kill me, but the thought of going to sleep just sounds so good.

Luckily, when my fingers relax on the rope, I fall a little forward and my hands slips through the ladder, pushing the rung sharply under my arms, burning my skin. The sensation of falling loops wildly through my stomach, sending warning signals to my brain. It snaps me out of my stupor and I manage to grasp the rope once more.

I look up just as the foot comes down on my head, trying for the knockout blow. Turning my head sharply to the side, I avoid the worst of it as the dirty, shoeless foot glances off my shoulder. Able to think once more, I grab the foot and pull down hard.

“Ahhh!” a high voice yells as a small form tumbles into my arm. It’s the girl with the pea shooter. The kicker. I desperately cling to the ladder with my other arm, while trying to hold onto the girl, who is kicking and thrashing wildly, trying to unhinge herself from me, completely unconcerned with the potential three-story drop below us.

“Stop squirming,” I snap. She doesn’t listen—just wriggles even harder.

I hear a shout from above and look up to see the boy with the slingshot, once more taking aim. He’s now dangling outside the top-floor window, where I’m headed, as the ladder continues to ascend.

“Don’t shoot or I’ll drop her!” I shout, muscling the girl away from the rope so she’s hanging precariously over empty space. Finally she stops fighting me as she realizes the danger she’s in.

The boy’s eyes widen and I see doubt register in his eyes as he lowers the slingshot slightly. If he shoots me and I fall, she’s going with me. Although clearly he’s not afraid of violence, perhaps he draws the line at bearing responsibility for the death of a friend.

“What youse want?” he says.

The ladder rises another couple of feet. I can almost touch him.

“Just to talk,” I say. And wring your little neck.

He pulls back and helps to pull the ladder over the windowsill. With a final grunt, I pull myself and the girl into the window, crashing awkwardly to a crinkly floor below. I feel my tiny hostage scramble away from me, scraping against the papery floor with her fingernails.

For a moment I can’t see through the gloom, but then a bright light is flashed in my eyes and I raise a hand to shield them.

“Don’t move,” the boy says, wielding a slingshot next to the light. His confidence is back.

“Yeah, don’t move,” the girl repeats, holding the light.

“I’m not moving,” I say, considering my options. I don’t particularly believe in hitting children, but for these two I might make an exception. They put the rats in brats.

“Youse said youse wanna talk. What about?” the boy asks.

“About you and your friends giving me my stuff back, for starters.”

“Forget it,” the boy says. “Finders keepers.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a real rule,” I say.

“Yeah, it is,” the boy says. “And anyway, it ain’t ours to give back. Not anymore.”

What is that supposed to mean? “Well, then, whose exactly is it?”

“Mep’s. The Gimp. Only don’t call ’im the Gimp—he don’t like that.”

I feel blood trickle off my scraped knuckles, and my shoulders, neck, and head are throbbing in at least six places. Damn kids.

“Where can I find this Mep?”

“You cain’t. He finds youse.”

Screw talking—it’s not getting me anywhere. I fake right, move left, and feel the air from the rock as it rips past my head, missing me by mere centimeters. I crash into the boy, rip the weapon from his hands, and swing around him to grab him around the neck from behind.

The girl plays the flashlight on our faces and I can tell she’s scared. I feel bad for a second, but then I remember how she bashed me in the head with her heel. “Let him go!” she cries.

“Only if you take me to Mep.”

She nods furiously. “Follow me. He’s just down the hall.”

“He’s here?” I say incredulously. After all the talk about how He finds youse, I thought for sure we’d have to go to some secret hideout in the city.

The girl doesn’t answer; instead, she moves away from me through the room, her feet crinkling on the floor, which I now see is covered in old newspapers. In some spots the newspapers are rolled up, and next to them are large squares of paper, knit together to form sheets. I realize: the kids are sleeping here.

I feel sick as I begin to put it all together. These kids are orphans, living without adult supervision, stealing to stay alive, sleeping on newspaper and reporting to some gimp named Mep.

I hesitate for a second. Tawni’s still down there by herself and she’s not exactly a fighter. And the Star Realm’s not exactly a safe place, as we’re quickly discovering. With the kid still in a headlock, I peek out the window. Tawni’s looking up at me, her face masked with concern. “You all right?” I shout.

She nods. “Should I get help?” she yells back.

“No!” The last thing I want is Tawni traipsing through the narrow subchapter streets by herself. “Stay there. I’ll be back in a minute.”

We tramp across the sleeping quarters and out of the room, passing through a short hallway with moldy, pockmarked walls and a crumbling floor. At one point the boy tries to stamp on my foot, but I just tighten my hold on his throat and his body goes slack, forcing me to drag him with me.

The girl pauses at a closed door on her right, takes a deep breath, and then knocks. There’s a muffled sound and the door opens slowly.

She whispers something I can’t hear to someone I can’t see.

“Enough with the mysterious bull crap,” I say, pushing past the little girl and into the room. The room is well-lit, with lanterns in each corner and at least a dozen candles. It reminds me of a séance, like the ones Madame Sonia used to hold that my mom wouldn’t let me go to. Three kids, wearing tattered white tunics that are so dirty they appear gray, bar my path with serious arms folded across puffed-out chests. “Move it if you don’t want to get hurt.”

The kids look at each other, like they’re unsure who to be more scared of—me, or this Mep character.

“Let her enter,” a remarkably high and whiny voice says from behind them. They shrug and part in the middle, allowing me to pass through them. I dump my “hostage” on the floor and move forward. The kid immediately races out the door. Little wimp, I think, not so confident without your slingshot. I’m still clenching his rock-slinger in my hand.

Mep’s sitting on a big cushion in the center of the room, surrounded by a half-dozen other kids, who almost look like his worshippers, such is the meekness of their postures. He would have been sitting cross-legged; that is, if he had any legs. Instead, he is just sort of resting on his torso, the stumps of his legs no more than half a foot long. I keep a straight face, but inside I’m horrified. This poor orphaned boy is stuck in the crummy Star Realm with no legs. It almost makes my time in the Pen look like a vacation.

As I look at him closer, I see that despite his tiny stature—due to his missing limbs—the boy is older than the rest of the kids—perhaps fifteen. He gazes at me with curious brown eyes that dance with questions.

“Why have you come to see Mep?” he asks.

“Why you are speaking in third person?” I retort.

A hint of a smile crosses his face. “I’m sorry, I’m used to speaking to children,” he says. “Why have you come to see me?”

“Your thugs stole our packs,” I say, “and when I chased them they shot rocks at me.” I don’t mention the heel-in-the-head incident. I’ll save it for later if I need it.

“You shouldn’t have chased them,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“They stole my stuff.”

“Finders, keepers.”

“Yeah, rock-slinger boy already tried that on me, but unless you can tell me the Tri-Realms law that states that, I want my packs back.” I can’t believe I’m actually relying on Tri-Realms law in my defense, which is the biggest bunch of BS there is, but I can’t think of anything better to say, except maybe Give them back now or I’ll sock you in the nose.

“Mep’s Law,” he says.

I’m getting bored of this conversation, which is beginning to transition from somewhat silly to laughably loony. “Listen, you little punk,” I say, stepping forward. Immediately, about twelve feet are planted in a circle around Mep. Some of the kids have pea shooters, some slingshots, and all wear fearsome glares. Well, maybe more comical than fearsome, but still, under the flickering glow of the candles, it’s somewhat intimidating, especially because I’m hopelessly outnumbered.

So what do I do?

No surprise there—I fight.

Three kids are down before they even know what hit them, my foot arcing through the orange light. I take a little strength off the kick, as I want to intimidate the buggers, not kill them. The other kids drop their weapons and run for the door. I let them go. Like I said, my tactics are for intimidation purposes only.

I fake a punch at Mep’s face and he flinches, throwing his hands across his face in defense, as if that could really stop my fist. I know I’m just being cruel now, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough.

“Give me the packs,” I growl.

“I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Mep squeals.

“Give me the freaking packs. NOW.”

“Okay, okay, they’re right here,” Mep says, reaching behind his back and retrieving our two packs. He hands them to me and retracts his hand quickly, as if he’s afraid I’ll claw him or something. I check each bag to make sure nothing’s missing. Stale wafers. A handful of leftover Nailins. Some clothes—our only spare clothes. No canteens, but that’s because we chucked them away when they were contaminated. All there.

“Thanks,” I grumble sarcastically, making for the door.

“Wait a minute, please.” I stop, but don’t turn around. “Why don’t you stay a minute and have something to eat or drink.”

“I’ll pass,” I say.

“I want to make you an offer,” he says, his voice going up in excitement.

“You can’t possibly have anything I want,” I say, although I am curious as to what the little guy has to say.

“Just five minutes,” he says. “Take a seat.” He motions to another cushion, and grudgingly, I place it in front of him and sit down. “Thank you, I appreciate it,” he says.

I just stare at him. This day is getting weirder and weirder.

“Some protectors they are,” he says, motioning to the door. I sense movement to my left and I jerk my head to the side, seeing the three kids I kicked to the ground sneaking for the door. When my gaze catches theirs, they break for it. I laugh as I watch them go.

“They did all right,” I say, massaging my sore shoulder.

“They’re good kids,” he says, at which I cringe, again remembering the kick in the head. Noticing my reaction, he says, “They are. You don’t know what kind of lives they’ve had—where they come from.”

“That’s just an excuse,” I say.

“I like you,” Mep says. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. It’s not what I expected him to say to the girl who penetrated his defenses, accused him of stealing, and beat up his gang of minions. “I do,” he says, flashing me a smile. He’s boyishly cute, with dimples in each cheek when he grins, piercing, turquoise eyes, and messed up brown hair.

“Why?”

“Because you’re tough—like me. You don’t survive in this world without being tough.”

“I’m not from this world,” I say. “I’m a moon dweller.”

“I guessed that much,” he says with a wink. “But I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me.” I stare at him for a second, letting his words sink in.

Oh. The Star Realm. I wonder what tragedies have occurred in this boy’s life that he would end up legless, an orphan, master to a bunch of kids who steal for survival. I want to ask him, but know I cannot.

“You don’t want to hear my story,” he says, as if sensing the question on my lips. “It’s not a happy one.” Unlike the other children, who sound rough, with harsh language from harsh upbringings, Mep is well spoken, seems mature even.

“You speak well,” I say, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way.

He seems to like that, his eyes opening wide. “My mother always…” He trails off, his eyes going misty.

“Your mother always what?” I prod.

He looks away and then right back at me. “She always read to me when I was little. Taught me how to read, to write. Made me smart. She’s still taking care of me, even now.”

I’m not sure I understand. I assumed he was an orphan, but maybe I was wrong. “What do you mean?”

Waving a hand, he says, “Oh, not like you think. She’s not around anymore. But the kids around here feed me, cloth me, practically worship me—all because I can read them stories.” He motions to the corner and my eyes drift to the spot. There’s a stack of old books that I hadn’t noticed earlier, with worn covers and broken spines.