Foreverland Is Dead

her. Kat and Jen are picking up the old man, who’s stumbled face first into the ground.
    Eventually, they get inside.

    “Take these.” Mad holds two white pills in her palm. “There aren’t many left.”
    Cyn works up enough spit to swallow them dry. Her heels are screaming all the way to the top of her head. She rests on the edge of her bed, keeping the weight off her feet.
    Two beds have been pushed in front of the stove, which is stocked with flaming logs. The old man and boy hunker beneath the blankets, still dressed in dirty, wet beachwear. No one wanted to undress them.
    Kat and Jen watch them shiver.
    More mouths to feed.
    Cyn calculates the number of weeks these two just took out of their stock. If they stay, they might not make it through winter. Then again, maybe these two know something.
    Something that will get them out of here.
    “Put them in the same bed for the night,” Cyn says.
    “They barely fit,” Jen says.
    “It’s our wood, our food, and our beds. None of us are sleeping on the floor.”
    “But that’s mean—they’re hurt. I’ll sleep on the floor. Let them be comfortable.”
    “No, you’re not sleeping on the floor. They’ll be fine.”
    “They’ll share body heat,” Kat adds. “That’s what men did in the Civil War—slept together. Hell, the old man needs it.”
    The old man rolls back and forth, moaning. Jen pulls the covers back over his shoulder. The scratch over his head is caked with dried blood. He needs to be cleaned up, but at least he’s not bleeding.
    “I wish something would make sense,” Cyn mutters.
    “Why start now?” Kat says. “I’m just getting used to it.”
    “We need to find them clothes for tomorrow. If they survive the night.”
    “You want to move them into the same bed now?” Kat asks.
    “After dinner.”
    Kat tosses another log onto the fire. The old man starts rambling again. Jen kneels next him, puts her hand on his forehead, her face etched with concern.
    “Don’t…” he mutters. “Don’t leave us out here.”
    “We won’t.” Jen strokes his head. “You’re safe now. It’s all right.”
    A moan rattles his throat. More angry than pained. “I paid good money, damn you.”
    Jen looks up, confused.
    “Delirious,” Kat says. “His brain probably froze.”
    “I’m staying,” Jen says. “Can someone bring dinner to me? Maybe they’ll want to eat, too. Are you hungry?”
    The old man remains quiet.
    The boy’s eyes are still unfocused, like he sleeps without closing them.
    “They’re from the dream,” Roc says from her bed.
    The girls look at Cyn. She doesn’t say anything. She remembers the dream they’ve all been having, the one where someone’s coming out of the fog. She also remembers falling into the fence, hearing the voices beyond the cliff, like speeding apparitions on a carnival ride.
    She has the same thought: that there are people out there.
    But that’s a dream.
    And two men just walked into their lives dressed for the beach.

29

    The old man and boy eat chicken noodle soup for breakfast, spilling broth down their Christian Dior sweaters and furry Forzieri coats. The old man is still shaking.
    They don’t talk; just eat. The boy mechanically lifts the spoon to his mouth like he’s running on autopilot, his body programmed to eat, methodically moving the spoon in timed increments.
    The old man, however, looks around after each bite, studies what he sees. He doesn’t look at the girls, as if he’s already figured them out. He’s just trying to figure out where the hell he is.
    He lifts the bowl to slurp out the last of noodles, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
    “My name,” he says, “is Mr. Williams.”
    “If you want to stay, you’ll have to pull your weight,” Cyn says.
    “Cyn!” Jen glares at her. “Mr. Williams, we’re just happy you’re feeling better. My name is Jen.”
    “Yes. This here is Sid.” He pats the boy on the shoulder. Sid keeps eating, one spoonful at a time. “Do the rest of you want to tell me your names?”
    Mad and Kat respond. Cyn only stares.
    “How about you?” he asks.
    Cyn nods. Finally relents. “Cyn.”
    “Yes.”
    His eyebrows rise. They’re bushy, unwieldy and wild. He looks around the room, out the window.
    “Sufficiently unpleasant here.”
    “You were expecting a beach?” Cyn says.
    “Hoping, I suppose.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Sid appears stuck, his spoon dipped in the soup. Mr. Williams nudges him. He