Foreverland Is Dead

the cabin, like someone had undressed, stepped out of stiff jeans, and tossed shirts and socks next to them.
    Her ears prick to attention, primed to grab any sound out of the ordinary. She walks softly, stopping each time a board creaks. Miranda squats low to the floor, grabs the pants, but it’s too dark to read the tag inside the waistline.
    She goes from bed to bed, all of them occupied except one. The one to the right of the front door. The blanket is turned back, a dirty sheet exposed. Lines carved into the wall.
    Miranda covers her mouth.
    She runs to the bed, pats the covers like Cyn must be in there somewhere. She has to be. She can’t be the one. She just can’t.
    Miranda runs to all the beds, no longer concerned about noise or who might return from the midnight run, because it can’t be Cyn. She identifies them all and they’re all there, sleeping soundly.
    All except Cyn.
    Miranda rubs her face, pinches her arm. She has to be dreaming. There has to be an explanation, has to be a reason.
    She’s not a thief. Can’t be.
    Miranda looks out the window. The dinner house looms. Nothing moves. No ghosts. No Cyn. She considers going out there, but what’s she going to do if she runs into her in the middle of the night while everyone else is sleeping? What good will it do?
    Instead, she crawls in to bed, hides beneath the heavy blanket. Staring at the crackling stove. Listening to the bunkhouse resist the rain. She doesn’t move.
    Until the doorknob turns.
    Her heartbeat thumps in her ear, against the pillowcase. In her throat. Miranda nearly closes her eyes, peeking through a crack. She spies the form walking slowly past her bed and around the stove.
    The fuzz on Cyn’s head is orange in the stove’s glow. Her clothes drip water onto the floor. She strips them off, slaps them over a chair until she’s completely naked, her hair matching the hue of her pubic hair. Despite the orange glow of the fire, her skin is pale as moonlight.
    The body of a mature woman.
    Cyn pulls one of the dry sweatshirts off of a chair and wipes down. She rubs the scruff on her head. Her ribs push from beneath her skin, her pelvis knifing out.
    She dresses in the center of the bunkhouse. Miranda pushes down the blanket, observing her sluggish, mechanical movements. Watches her put the finishing touches on a perfect crime. When everyone else is dead asleep, she can do what she wants.
    But Miranda’s not like them.
    Now she knows.
    Cyn climbs into bed and doesn’t move. Miranda’s skin crawls. So exposed. So betrayed. Cyn pretends to be one person, but she’s another beneath the surface. She’s a thief and no one knows it. At least Roc is honest about her darkness. It’s the wolf you don’t see that’s dangerous.
    Miranda lies awake for most of the night. As the embers die and the bunkhouse cools, cold penetrates the walls and slithers beneath her covers. It’s a different kind of cold, one that a wood stove can’t cure.
    Before morning , she crawls out of bed. She’s tired of being scared and hungry. Tired of the cold.
    She has to act now, while they’re all still asleep .

13

    Cyn notches another line.
    She doesn’t count them, just sees the bundles. Funny how minutes become hours, hours become days… Will it become years?
    The dream hasn’t changed. Something is in the gray, but it doesn’t mean someone is coming for them. Dreams are thoughts, not reality.
    Cyn plucks her clothes from the chair around a cold stove, still damp . She pulls her boots out from under the bed. She stitched the holes in her socks, but they won’t last. They already have the color of chocolate.
    Her feet are caked with mud. She needs to do a better job of washing them, especially before getting into bed. A bad case of jungle rot will only make things worse.
    The wind harvesters are relatively quiet. The patter of rain is gone. She runs to the dinner house, her stiff boots squeaking. Cyn gets an old-fashioned coffee percolator set up. There might be enough coffee to brew for another couple weeks. No one else drinks it. Coffee is for adults.
    Enjoy it while it lasts.
    She checks the shelves while the percolator burps. Everything is in order. No gaps, nothing shuffled around or apparently missing. That’s good. Cyn will update the inventory list after breakfast.
    The coffee is strong. The caffeine surges into her head, clearing out the cobwebs. She holds the mug with both hands, the steam warming the tip of her nose. She’ll collect