Our homes were but a large collection of hovels surrounding the far more useful building that was the Center. Once, the Center had been a domed field, meant for observing games of some kind. But legend was that the Center had been open only a month when the Cataclysm struck. It had been full, and thousands—maybe millions—of people were trapped inside. The Center had survived, and when the volcanic eruptions and earthquakes were over and the people came out to find their city in ruins, they sorted themselves by skills and began building the Community around the place that had saved their lives. Gradually, others found their way to the Community, too, like Grandmother.
At least, that was what Mother had told me.
Clouds darkened on the horizon, heralded by heavy wind and the squawk of birds flying to their nests. Outside their huts, children pointed at the sky and the promise of rain. The air pressure dropped; everything was sticky and warm, and insects droned.
We headed through the maze of houses and tiny gardens, most barely surviving the drought. My house was dim with the oncoming storm, but Fayden and I had lived here all our lives and we could navigate it in the dark. We kicked open doors and carried the boxes of glass to hide in his room; Father wouldn’t look there.
A faint creaking in the kitchen stilled me.
“What is it?” Stef asked. The three of us paused in the hallway, caught between bedroom doors and the washroom.
“Someone’s here.” I kept my voice low, but there was no point. A moment later, Father slammed his way into the hall and flicked his glare from me to the box I held, and back to me.
“What is this?” He reached inside the box; the hall was too narrow for me to move out of the way. His breath smelled sharp and sour, as though he’d been drinking. Indeed, the leather flask hung off his belt. “Glass? Where did you get this?”
I pressed my mouth in a line. The silence came over me, a familiar armor.
Father’s voice deepened and grew raspy. “You’ve been scavenging with your brother? And you’ve been hiding glass?” He placed the glass back inside the box, careful of such wealth even in his anger, and turned on Fayden.
My brother stared at me, but he didn’t say anything. Behind him, Stef looked as though he wanted to disappear into the wall, but I couldn’t help his discomfort. I couldn’t even help myself.
The air in the hall grew stuffy and hot as Father shoved himself toward Fayden. Too close. Too close. And yet, a pathetic sense of relief welled up inside me—relief he wasn’t that close to me.
“You’ve both been hiding this from me?” Father shouted. “No wonder you’ve been such brothers lately. Were you going to take it and move out? Leave me here to starve on my own?”
Fayden put on his most patient tone. “No, Father—”
“And now you deny it?” Father drew back and hit Fayden with a loud whap, almost lost beneath the sudden roll of thunder.
The box of glass slipped in my hands, but I tightened my grip and glanced at Stef. His expression was a mask of uncertainty and shock.
Thunder rumbled again, but the sound was distant, muted, like even the world held its breath.
“We have to go.” My voice came as a hollow rasping. “Our friend needs our help.”
Father’s eyes cut to Stef, and the stench of alcohol on his breath filled the hall as he huffed out a laugh. “Friend? Dossam, you don’t have friends.”
Stef’s jaw clenched when he swallowed. “With respect, sir, I get to decide whether Sam is my friend. Not you.”
Even as my heart swelled at the words, I gaped at Stef. Wasn’t he afraid? He’d seen what happened when someone contradicted Father. I waited for Father to strike Stef, too.
But Father had something worse in mind. He lowered his voice, and his eyes became mere slits. “You don’t want to be friends with a boy who killed his own mother.”
My breath came short and rattled. “We should go.” I edged out of the hall, but Father slammed his palm to the wall and blocked me in.
“Leave the glass.” A strange note pushed into his voice. Hunger. Greed. Probably calculating how much whiskey all this glass would buy.
I glanced at Stef, who shook his head. “We’ll take it to my house.”
“You will not.” Father grabbed the box from me, glass clinking inside, and tossed it into the washroom. Glass clattered—had it broken?—and he shoved past me to seize Stef’s box, too. “Get out of my house.” He faced Fayden and me. His knuckles were white as he gripped the box. “All of you. Out of my house. Thieves. Traitors. Mother-killers. I don’t ever want to see any of you again.”
Fayden sounded placating. “Father—”
“Get out!” Father hit Fayden square in the jaw. “Get out!” He whipped his hand back and hit me in the temple, making sparks flare in my vision and sending my head thudding against the wall.
Before he could go after Stef, I scrambled from the hallway, moving toward the front door. Fayden and Stef weren’t far behind. But our glass was gone.
6
“WHAT WAS THAT?” Stef asked as we hurried through the Community, all the little houses like teeth around us.