Foreverland Is Dead

body, out of this world, away from these feelings.
    The music is her source of sanity, masking the haunting sounds in the house. It smothers her thoughts, transforms her emotions. Allows her the strength to stay inside the brick house. Without it, she’d be out there, with them.
    And she can’t do that.
    Not now.
    Miranda’s hands tremble over her lips, brush the hair from her face. She cups them over her mouth, tries to slow her breathing. She’s hyperventilating.
    Why does the Dagger Queen have to be such an ungrateful, ragged bitch? Miranda went through every bedroom, searched every closet just so they wouldn’t freeze. The two downstairs bedrooms are the largest, but there are four more upstairs. She doesn’t go up there at night, not anymore. Too many strange sounds.
    She spent days picking out clothing that will fit them, coats to keep them warm. They think they’ll survive a real winter in those dirty rags? If they want to live, they need Miranda.
    Why do I have to suffer?
    O Fortuna ends with a flurry of applause, followed by Ode to Joy.
    She peeks between her fingers, staring down the end of the hall. The one room she hasn’t explored. The room with the smell. It took every bit of Miranda’s courage for her to climb the stairs during the day, but there wasn’t enough courage in the universe to open the metal door.
    If she hadn’t found the shelf of candles, she’s not sure how long she would’ve lasted. It takes six Yankee Candles of evergreen, vanilla, and apple-cinnamon to battle the odor. Smells like the Gingerbread Man’s corpse.
    Miranda crawls into the kitchen, candles on the counters, and leans against the industrial-sized refrigerator to the left. Her breathing has slowed. She lets Beethoven finish Ode to Joy before eating something.

16

    Cyn isn’t the first one awake .
    Kat is stoking the fire. Jen and Mad sit cross-legged, sorting through clothes. It looks like they just struck gold. Cyn curls up beneath the blankets. The windows are dark. Rain patters the roof. The rooster is quiet.
    Jen snatches a fuzzy sweater from the pile, holds it up to her chest. “Liz Claiborne. You like?”
    “The fuzzy collar will drive you nuts,” Mad says.
    “But what will the boys think?”
    Mad’s laughter is punctuated with a snort. The first time she’s ever done that. Maybe only the third time she’s laughed.
    There’s a stack of clothing next to Cyn’s bed. It’s like Santa brought sweatshirts and coats and balled up socks. On the bottom, thick and puffy, are tan coveralls.
    “Those are yours,” Jen says. “We thought you could use them when you explore the countryside.”
    “It’s cold out there,” Mad adds. “Plus, you’re not getting new boots.”
    “Nothing’ s going to fit your paddles, Cyn,” Jen says. “Unless Miranda finds snowshoes.”
    The girls laugh. Cyn joins them. She’s got wide feet for a girl.
    Her body odor wafts out , permanently stained and eternally damp from the sheets. Cyn shucks her clothing, dropping each piece at the foot of the bed. Her soft, warm skin contracts in the frigid air.
    “Whoa!” Mad hides her face. “Decency, girl!”
    Kat stares, smiling. “ Panties in there. On the bottom.”
    Cyn never thought she’d be e xcited about underwear, but denim has about rubbed her parts raw. She craves cotton. The fabric snugs against her hips, feel nice between her legs. She pulls a padded sports bra over her head and quickly puts a new Ralph Lauren on.
    Lastly, she steps into the Carhartt coveralls. It’s all baggy , but so warm, so comforting, like a mother’s embrace. Exactly what she needs.
    Thank you.
    The stove throws orange light against the walls. Shadows stretch over the floor. Jen struts to the front door.
    “You like?”
    She’s wearing jeans cuffed at the bottom with sequins stapled to the outer seams and a cardigan that hangs to her knees. The girls clap. She stops at the front door and turns, lips pouty, and catwalks to the stove. Kat puts her fingers in her mouth and a whistle splits the bunkhouse.
    “ Shut the hell up!” Roc flops over in bed.
    They look at the lump in the corner bed and stifle their laughter.
    “Let’s grab some breakfast,” Cyn says. “I’ll get the eggs.”

17

    A gust of wind splashes against the window. The brick house creaks under the assault.
    Miranda takes the sweet honeysuckle candle into the bedroom, to the left of the kitchen. Adagio for Strings plays in the front room. She sits at the desk