Kneeling in the dirt with a stick in hand, a teenaged girl painstakingly traced shapes until she found her drawing satisfactory. “They looked like that,” she explained to the woman watching her. “Except three were smaller.”
“Wolves, most likely. You didn’t get up close, did you?” The girl shook her head. “Smart kid. One wolf is dangerous. A pack is worse.”
"I see." Idly she drew three smaller wolves near the mother. "The little ones were cute. I guess cuz they’re still babies. They’re allowed to play.”
“People have been known to tame 'em, if you can get to 'em young enough. Mind, I’d rather have a plain old bloodhound.” The woman paused, tapping her fingers against the bandana over her jaw. “We ought to get a dog. I think you’d do well with a pet, Cecelia.”
“Really?”
“Really. If we can ever find one. A healthy pup can be expensive.”
Cecelia was already scribbling human shapes besides each of the wolf cubs, one for each member of the caravan: Shay, and two men. Shay drove the caravan. She picked up an exhausted, starving Cecelia on the outskirts of Dead Angel without question. When Shay said the ragged runaway was staying, Tarid shoved his belongings into a box and made her a bed from his space. Dirk recalculated the rations until the next outpost. They never spoke of it, but the small sacrifices they made for her did not go unnoticed.
“Playing in the dust again?” Tarid’s voice. Like Shay, his skin showed signs of rot but he flat-out refused to hide it. This obstinacy resulted in him being peppered with buckshot more than once. In this way, Cecelia learned the basics of pulling shrapnel from someone’s hide. “Clean up ragamuffin. We got dinner.”
The sound of a knife tearing through meat warned her not to turn around. She pressed a knuckle to her mouth, fighting revulsion. Stop it, you’re being stupid.
Someone nudged her elbow. Shay pressed a can and a fork into her hands. “Here, it’s not meat.”
“Thank you.” Cecelia straightened her back, shaking brown shaggy hair over her shoulders. Her small stature was hidden by the scavenged clothing she wore, Rover skirts and sleeves that dangled far past her wrists. “Shay? Where are we going next?”
“We’re gonna kick around here for a while. Then head to Lone Star.”
“Big. Loud. You ever meet any Mericans?” She shook her head. “They're a, eh, rowdy folk, to put it bluntly. Plenty of them are nice enough but they rarely know when to shut up, in my experience.”
“If a Merican offers you a drink in a bottle, do not take it,” Dirk warned. Cecelia tilted her head in obvious confusion. “It's hooch. You probably won't like it.”
“Well, yer no fun.” Tarid stretched his arms above his head, joints cracking audibly. “There ain't nothing like a Merican party. I say we let her try it when we get there.”
“Boozehounds aside, I think you'll like Lone Star. Plenty of farms, so there'll be critters to play with.”
The girl brightened. “Yeah...I'd like that.”
The caravan finished dinner and cleared away the remains and the cooking tools. Cecelia hunkered down by the fire, mesmerized by the embers. Shay dragged a crate over and sat behind her, brandishing a comb. “You're getting scruffy, kiddo.” Careful not to tug too hard, Shay eased the comb through the dusty snarls until it was a smooth dark mass falling down her back. The only reason Cecelia didn't protest- she preferred to do things for herself, when she could- was because it reminded her of when Hester would brush and braid her hair. Of all the things she left in Dead Angel, she missed her sister most.
“God, I wish I had a mane like this. Why do you keep it hidden all the time?” Shay dipped her fingers into the thick strands, stroking them gently before quickly withdrawing her hand. She ran the comb over that spot a couple more times to be sure no skin was left behind.
Cecelia yawned. The warm crackling of the fire and the comb against her scalp felt comfortable, relaxing. Shay nudged her back, driving her towards a bedroll.
“Go get some rest, kiddo.”
“Wolves, most likely. You didn’t get up close, did you?” The girl shook her head. “Smart kid. One wolf is dangerous. A pack is worse.”
"I see." Idly she drew three smaller wolves near the mother. "The little ones were cute. I guess cuz they’re still babies. They’re allowed to play.”
“People have been known to tame 'em, if you can get to 'em young enough. Mind, I’d rather have a plain old bloodhound.” The woman paused, tapping her fingers against the bandana over her jaw. “We ought to get a dog. I think you’d do well with a pet, Cecelia.”
“Really?”
“Really. If we can ever find one. A healthy pup can be expensive.”
Cecelia was already scribbling human shapes besides each of the wolf cubs, one for each member of the caravan: Shay, and two men. Shay drove the caravan. She picked up an exhausted, starving Cecelia on the outskirts of Dead Angel without question. When Shay said the ragged runaway was staying, Tarid shoved his belongings into a box and made her a bed from his space. Dirk recalculated the rations until the next outpost. They never spoke of it, but the small sacrifices they made for her did not go unnoticed.
“Playing in the dust again?” Tarid’s voice. Like Shay, his skin showed signs of rot but he flat-out refused to hide it. This obstinacy resulted in him being peppered with buckshot more than once. In this way, Cecelia learned the basics of pulling shrapnel from someone’s hide. “Clean up ragamuffin. We got dinner.”
The sound of a knife tearing through meat warned her not to turn around. She pressed a knuckle to her mouth, fighting revulsion. Stop it, you’re being stupid.
Someone nudged her elbow. Shay pressed a can and a fork into her hands. “Here, it’s not meat.”
“Thank you.” Cecelia straightened her back, shaking brown shaggy hair over her shoulders. Her small stature was hidden by the scavenged clothing she wore, Rover skirts and sleeves that dangled far past her wrists. “Shay? Where are we going next?”
“We’re gonna kick around here for a while. Then head to Lone Star.”
“Big. Loud. You ever meet any Mericans?” She shook her head. “They're a, eh, rowdy folk, to put it bluntly. Plenty of them are nice enough but they rarely know when to shut up, in my experience.”
“If a Merican offers you a drink in a bottle, do not take it,” Dirk warned. Cecelia tilted her head in obvious confusion. “It's hooch. You probably won't like it.”
“Well, yer no fun.” Tarid stretched his arms above his head, joints cracking audibly. “There ain't nothing like a Merican party. I say we let her try it when we get there.”
“Boozehounds aside, I think you'll like Lone Star. Plenty of farms, so there'll be critters to play with.”
The girl brightened. “Yeah...I'd like that.”
The caravan finished dinner and cleared away the remains and the cooking tools. Cecelia hunkered down by the fire, mesmerized by the embers. Shay dragged a crate over and sat behind her, brandishing a comb. “You're getting scruffy, kiddo.” Careful not to tug too hard, Shay eased the comb through the dusty snarls until it was a smooth dark mass falling down her back. The only reason Cecelia didn't protest- she preferred to do things for herself, when she could- was because it reminded her of when Hester would brush and braid her hair. Of all the things she left in Dead Angel, she missed her sister most.
“God, I wish I had a mane like this. Why do you keep it hidden all the time?” Shay dipped her fingers into the thick strands, stroking them gently before quickly withdrawing her hand. She ran the comb over that spot a couple more times to be sure no skin was left behind.
Cecelia yawned. The warm crackling of the fire and the comb against her scalp felt comfortable, relaxing. Shay nudged her back, driving her towards a bedroll.
“Go get some rest, kiddo.”