Chapter 3: Doesn't Fit In
790words
Mom looks surprisingly satisfied. She pulls open the creaking door and guides me inside. "Look, Lily, our new home," she says. "Small, but it has everything we need."
The trailer smells musty from long disuse. It contains a small bed, a small table, and a tiny kitchen area. Brenda opens the windows, letting in dust-laden air, then busies herself organizing—placing our backpacks on the bed and carefully stowing the precious can of luncheon meat in the cabinet.
I stand motionless in the middle of the trailer. The space feels confining. I can clearly hear people walking and talking outside—the sounds of the living. It makes me restless.
Brenda finishes tidying and retrieves a glass jar from her first-aid kit. When she opens it, a strong herbal scent immediately fills our small space. Inside is her homemade ointment—comfrey mixed with petroleum jelly, an oily purple concoction.
"Come here, Lily." She beckons to me.
My body obeys, stiffly walking to her. She seats me on the edge of the bed and scoops out a generous dollop of ointment. With gentle movements, she applies it to my face, neck, and the purplish marks on the backs of my hands.
"This will help reduce the bruising," she murmurs as she works. "Remember when you were little and raced the neighbor's dog? You scraped your knee, and I treated it just like this. Healed in two days flat."
I want to tell her these aren't bruises from a fall. They're marks of decay. But my mouth can't form words. I can only smell the strange herbal scent and feel the greasiness on my skin.
At dinnertime, Brenda leads me to the common canteen—a huge canvas tent housing more than a dozen long tables. Survivors line up for food from a large iron pot. Tonight's dinner is vegetable stew with meat.
Carrots and potato chunks float in the broth alongside small pieces of unidentifiable meat. The smell of cooked flesh makes me recoil.
Brenda collects two portions and seats me in the corner of an empty table. She pushes a plate before me. "You need vegetables for vitamins," she says.
I stare at the plate. At the next table, a man devours a barely-cooked steak, blood seeping out and staining his potatoes.
My gaze locks onto that meat. I can smell its bloody essence. My throat itches. My stomach growls. Saliva slides uncontrollably from the corner of my mouth, dripping onto the table.
A malicious sneer comes from nearby.
It's Hank, sitting a few tables away with folded arms, watching me with cruel amusement. He's seen my drooling. He's seen my craving for raw meat.
Brenda notices too. She quickly pulls out a napkin and roughly wipes my mouth. "Don't act like a toddler!" she scolds under her breath. Then she glares defiantly at Hank.
Hank silently mouths something. I read his lips.
He says: "Monster."
Just then, a figure appears beside our table. It's the little boy—Caleb. He carries a tray with only a small portion of stew and a cookie. He looks small and undernourished.
He approaches quietly, head down, eyes fixed on his feet. After a moment's hesitation, he awkwardly pushes his only cookie beside my tray.
Without a word, he turns and runs away as if he's committed some terrible crime.
I look down at the cookie. It's dry and cracked. Nothing about it appeals to me.
But Brenda's eyes light up. Watching the boy's retreating figure, her face breaks into a genuine, grateful smile—her first since arriving at Safe Harbor.
"Look, Lily." She picks up the cookie and holds it to my lips, her voice tinged with relief. "There are still good people. Try it."
I don't move.
That night, Miller visits us. He stands at our door without entering, his silhouette blocking the light.
"Brenda," he begins, his voice cold.
"Sheriff Miller." Brenda stands, positioning herself between us.
Miller's gaze shifts past her to me. He must have heard about my behavior in the cafeteria. Hank wouldn't miss any chance to condemn us.
"The community needs order," Miller says slowly. "Everyone must follow the rules. No exceptions."
"I understand," Brenda replies calmly.
"I don't want a repeat of this afternoon," Miller continues. "People are scared. Fear breeds trouble. Big trouble."
He pauses, his eyes hardening.
"Keep your daughter in line."
With that, he disappears into the night, giving us no chance to explain. Brenda and I are left alone in the trailer with only the lingering scent of purple herb ointment.
