Pete laughs. “Entirely, and I wouldn’t question Bella if I were you, Immune. You don’t want to be on her bad side. She might be small for a twelve-year-old, but she’s a fighter.”
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“I don’t know what else to call you,” Pete says, draping an arm over Bella’s shoulder. “Here Bella and I have been polite, introduced ourselves, saved you, and you still haven’t told us your name.” He clicks his tongue. “What poor manners you have. Didn’t your mother teach you anything? Where are your folks, anyway? Did they run like the others?” He grabs a book of matches from the shelf and hands it to Bella.
My face grows warm with anger. I clutch my father’s military tags, feeling the bite of the chain in the palm of my hand. The metal brings forth my last memory of my father. Just before the first bombs dropped over London, he kissed my forehead, slipped his military tags around my neck, and told me he must protect the Queen of England. Pride glistened in his eyes as the front door shut, leaving me behind to care for my siblings. Promises of returning never fulfilled.
I swallow my rage. “Dead,” I say under my breath to keep Mikey from hearing, not wanting to dash his hopes of their survival. For now at least. The truth is much too painful.
Bella and Pete exchange an odd glance and stare back at me.
I sigh and go back to packing my bag. “Aren’t all the adults dead? Parents, soldiers … even Her Majesty hasn’t been seen or heard from since the war started.”
Pete and Bella remain quiet, as if waiting for me to continue.
“Dad was a staff sergeant in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. Mum was a doctor, a researcher of some sort. Neither came home the day the war started. End of story. What concern is it of yours, anyway?”
Pete swallows and dips his chin to his chest, seeming to contemplate what to say next. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says in almost a whisper. It is the first time his voice is devoid of sarcasm, which takes me by surprise. He grips Bella by the hand and she gazes up at him with affection. “Mine are gone, too. Have been for several years now. And Bella here, I found her hiding in a hollowed-out tree trunk a few days after the bombs fell. Her parents didn’t make it either.”
The hurt on his face reflects the same deep ache I feel: a dark, vacant chasm my parents once filled. Bella kicks at a clump of mud on the floor and doesn’t look up. I think of the numerous nights my brother cried in his sleep, calling out for our parents and being comforted by both Joanna and me. I can’t imagine what Bella, just a child herself, must have felt hiding all alone with no one to reassure her everything would be all right. She would’ve been eleven. Not nearly old enough to care for herself alone.
“I’m sorry for your loss, too,” I say softly. Another uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. Finally, I notice the book of matches in Bella’s hand and snatch it from her. “But that doesn’t mean you can take our supplies.”
“Gwen?” Mikey whispers from around the corner of the shelves.
“I told you to hide,” I hiss. An injured expression crosses his face, and he shrinks back into the darkened corner, hiding behind the dirty teddy bear. I immediately regret snapping at him. When did I become so quick to hostility?
“Gwen?” Pete asks, looking at me quizzically. “That’s not much better than Immune, if you ask me.”
Glaring at him, I grab another item from the shelf, a photograph of my family. “How did you two survive, anyway? Most of the children have been abducted or fled with their families. I haven’t seen anyone in months,” I say.
Pete peers over my shoulder at the picture without answering.
“Hmm, you have a sister, too? She’s cute for a Little. Is she hiding in here also?” Pete asks, stealing the photo from my hand. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, Little.”
Searching the bottom shelf, Bella groans and tosses a thimble, which she seems to deem useless. She stashes a sewing kit into her satchel.
“A Little?” I ask, reaching for the photograph. Pete holds it out of my reach, inspecting it carefully.
“That’s what Pete calls all the kids who aren’t teenagers,” Bella says, peering over his shoulder. “Kids like me. At least until next year.”
“So where is she?” Pete asks, his brows raised.
“She’s not here,” I say, snatching the photo from Pete’s hand. I glide my finger over the familiar face in the picture. Joanna’s curly hair hangs haphazardly in her face. She smiles brightly as she leans her head on our Newfoundland puppy, Nanny, another casualty of the war. A lump grows in my throat and tears spring to my eyes. I shove the photo into my pack and swallow back the pain. There’s no time for tears.