Dead Silence

This time Violet didn’t try to ignore the anxiety she saw in her mother’s expression. She could no more ask her mom to stop caring than she could will away the imprint that clung to her. “Go ahead.” The strained smile was back, but her kiss was gentle and spoke volumes about how hard she tried. “I’ll tell you if Uncle Stephen calls, ’kay?”

THE TIES THAT BIND

HE THREW HIS FOOT DOWN ON THE BACK OF HIS skateboard, forcing its nose up to his hand. Lifting it, he tucked it beneath his arm just before he ducked, slipping inside the opening of the wide-mouthed sewer drain. Even if it had been tall enough to stand in, the corrugated sheet metal beneath his feet would have made it impossible to ride his board through the tube. It didn’t matter though; he preferred to sneak inside noiselessly. It was better for all of them if no one heard him coming.

He emerged from the other end to face the grungiest apartment building in the entire city. There were only six units in the building, but he doubted there was water or power running to any of them. Most of the windows had been broken out at some point, only to be repaired by cardboard and duct tape, if they were repaired at all. What made matters worse was that there were actual tenants living in some of those units, people who handed over their welfare and disability checks to some slumlord who could give a rat’s ass about their living conditions.

He wasn’t one of those suckers, of course. None of his people were. They were squatters, crashing in one of the vacant apartments for as long as they could go undetected.

Slowly, he approached the main floor slider—the one that didn’t lock, but still closed at least—and he pressed his ear against it, listening. Inside, he could hear the low hum of Boxer’s voice followed just a moment later by the sound of Kisha . . . not quite a giggle, but an attempt to laugh.

He rapped once at the door, signaling he was there before letting himself inside.

Kisha was crouched on the stained mattress that the two of them shared in the middle of the living room floor. She wore just his T-shirt over her plain white underpants, and he could see how thin she was, as her arms wrapped protectively around her bare legs. There was a half-burned candle on a plate littered with discarded matches beside her, making the sheen of sweat on her face glisten and glow in the light from its flame.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him, and Boxer turned to glance over his shoulder.

He lifted his chin in a silent greeting. “Where’s Bailey?” he asked, after doing a quick head count.

As always, Boxer was quick to respond. Faithful and diligent. He cocked his head toward the closed door, a bedroom the size of a closet. “Sleeping. She’s crashing pretty hard.”

But it was Colton who narrowed his gaze at him, scrutinizing his face and drawing attention to something he’d just as soon ignore. “I thought you weren’t going home. You said you were just gonna sell the stuff and get our shit. What the hell happened to you?”

He turned his still-throbbing cheek away from them. He didn’t want to answer their questions about the bruise forming beneath his eye. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.” Nodding toward the door again, he steered the conversation back to Bailey. “I got what she needs.” And then he smiled temptingly. “I got enough for everyone.”

He pulled out a plastic bag, showing them the fine brown powder inside.

Colton’s eyes went wide. “How much did you score? I knew we had a lot’a shit to sell, but I bet there’s enough there to keep us high for a year.” As always, it was Colton, wearing that stupid grin of his. Boxer knew better. He knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“I got enough. Bailey won’t be dope sick for a while.” He dropped down in front of Kisha. He reached out to stroke her gaunt cheeks, wondering when she’d last eaten. She stared back at him dreamily, trustingly, and his chest swelled with pride.

Kisha blinked, her eyes never leaving his. “Can I have some? Just a taste?”

He knew what she really meant, just enough to take the edge off, and he wondered if he should tell her no. He didn’t need the drugs to keep her, or any of them, in check. They would stay with him—follow him—regardless. But he liked being the only one who was clearheaded. He liked the way they had to lean on him to make decisions, even simple ones like what to eat . . . and when.

He cupped her chin, turning her face one way, and then the other, inspecting her even though there was nothing new to see. The smudges beneath her eyes were still the same, as was the devotion in them. With the slightest nod, he gave Kisha the permission she was waiting for, and she practically squealed, dragging the dirty sleeve of her T-shirt up and holding out her arm to him.

He handed the bag to Boxer and watched. Boxer worked methodically, squeezing her emaciated arm as he tried to find a vein that hadn’t long since collapsed. It took longer than it should have, but eventually he looked up triumphantly.

Kisha’s eyes widened as she watched Boxer draw the needle. The vein was small and it rolled when he tried to jab it, but after several attempts the point of the needle finally found its way inside, releasing the drug into her system.

After that it was only minutes—seconds, really—before she was transformed, her eyes too bright.

She blinked, as if trying to clear her drug-blurred vision. “Baby,” she whispered, allowing herself to be more familiar now that her inhibitions were down. She reached out to him, her voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

“Told you I’d take care of you,” he said, letting Kisha’s arms fold around his neck, her fingers burrowing into his hair. Her lips were soft and moist and fervent.