Foreverland Is Dead

fewer wrinkles.
    She takes it to the back room, holds it up to the monitor.

31

    Cyn falls on the footstool. The walk from bunkhouse to the kitchen has become a long one. She stopped chopping wood and now spends more time next to a stove, but still, her feet hurt.
    Especially in the morning.
    She unwraps the dirty bandages. The wounds are red and weepy. She’s resorted to folding clean patches to cover her heels, wrapping them with strips of cloth ripped from tshirts.
    We need clean clothes.
    The brick house is still shuttered and quiet. Not a crack of light penetrates the shielded windows. No sound, no movement.
    Is she even alive?
    “I don’t like the way that looks.” Mad leans into the kitchen.
    “I don’t like a lot of things.”
    She’s used half the ointment and nearly all the bandages. There won’t be much left if someone else gets hurt. Cyn opens the cabinet beneath the sink, picks up one of the brown bottles, and shakes it. Pills rattle inside.
    “Don’t know what’s in there,” Cyn says. “It could be poison.”
    “That gets infected, it won’t matter.”
    “How many should I take?”
    Mad shakes her head. “Hell, I don’t know.”
    Cyn pops the top, dumps several capsules into her palm. They’re blue and white. Why didn’t they have labels?
    “No.” She snaps the lid back on, puts the bottle away. “I’m holding off.”
    Mad nods. She’s not sure she should take the pills, either. Downing a bunch of unknown pills isn’t great advice. At least not yet. She goes back out to the dinner room, returns with tree branches.
    “Use these,” she says.
    Crude branches are tied with twine, handles about halfway down. Wide braces are fastened on top to fit beneath her underarms and a wide bottom is formed to keep the branches from sinking into the soft earth.
    “Jen put them together,” Mad says. “These, too.”
    She tosses a pair of boots on the floor. The backs are cut out.
    “They’re not waterproof, but at least you won’t go barefoot.”
    Cyn holds them up. She laughs.
    “Told her you’d be pissed.”
    “They’re brilliant.”
    “Okay. I was wrong.”
    Cyn stands, balances with the sticks under her arms. They’re not the most comfortable support, but with a t-shirt or two wrapped around the tops, they might be all right. Mad’s right: an infection is the end. There’s no CVS, no Doc in the Box to wipe out a blood disease.
    Game over.
    Mad kicks the cabinet door with her toe. Cyn pokes one of the crutches in the opening, bouncing it back open.
    “More of those bags are missing.”
    “Forgot about those,” Mad says. “How many?”
    “You serious? This thing was half full.”
    Mad leans over. “I’m not taking them. Honest.”
    They’re definitely missing, no doubt about it, no need to get an exact count.
    Point is, who’s taking them?
    “Here.” Cyn yanks the drawer open next to the stove, pulls out a pen. She breaks it in half and hands the ink-filled tube to Mad. “Cut that with scissors, smear it on the handle. Blue fingers are guilty.”
    Mad stares at the tube. A good pen wasted.
    She digs a pair of scissors out, begins to lay the trap.
    Cyn sits down on the footstool, spreading a layer of salve on her heels while Mad smears the inside of the handle.
    “Good morning, girls.”
    Cyn nearly jumps off the stool. Mr. Williams pokes his head inside the kitchen. She didn’t hear the front door open. He smiles with all of his crooked teeth. His cheeks are fleshy, not pale. His eyes clear, not glassy. And he has ditched the frilly Christian Dior coat.
    “Feeling better?” Mad stands, ink on her fingers.
    “Your soup is a miracle worker, Ms. Mad.” A gold cap twinkles. He tugs on the collar of his coat. “I’m a Ralph Lauren man. Makes all the difference. How are the ankles?”
    “Beautiful.”
    “How did you hurt them, if I may ask?”
    “Too much walking.” She makes the final wraps and tapes the cloth in place. “How did you get so chipper?”
    “Sleep works wonders.”
    Again, the gold cap.
    “Ms. Cyn, I’d like to request your assistance in a tour of your camp. I’d like to know exactly how Sid and I might contribute. The last thing we want to do is become leeches. You’ve been so kind. That is, if you’re up to it.”
    Cyn looks at Mad. She shrugs.
    Clearly, he knows who’s running the camp.
    “Where’s Sid?”
    “Resting.” His expression is slack. “Can we talk?”
    He doesn’t wait, going out the front door and standing on the