Foreverland Is Dead

off and reaches for the stack on the floor. The undergarments are dingy and already reek of dead skin. The bottoms of her socks are black and damp. She peels them off, replaces them with another pair that are soiled, but dry.
    The girls walk past, ask how she’s feeling, if she needs any help. Except Jen. She won’t look at her.
    Kat turns the block of wood nailed into the wall—a rudimentary lock cobbled together from parts in the barn—and opens the door. They brace for the weather, start the morning trek to the dinner house.
    The girls run. Cyn walks.
    The sleet stings like frozen sand.

    The dinner house is warm.
    The table is pulled away from the stove. Miranda’s bed—the one she was sleeping on before retreating to the brick house—is in front of the roaring stove. Mr. Williams is sitting on it, fully dressed, hair slicked back.
    “Good morning,” he says.
    Sid is curled up on the floor, a blanket serving as his mattress.
    Cyn goes to the footstool to dress her wounds. She folds a piece of paper until it’s thick and narrow, wedging it between her teeth like a bit, and begins to unwind the grimy wrappings. The bandage is soaked with watery discharge and slimy pus.
    She bites harder.
    Pills.
    The time has come. The wounds aren’t healing. She reaches for the cabinet—
    She jerks her hand back like the cabinet is hot, slowly looking at the smudges on her first two fingers. She didn’t touch the ink trap yesterday, hadn’t gone near the cabinet… It can’t be.
    The dirty socks. The sore feet.
    “I don’t like the way those look.” Mad starts up the griddle, looking down at Cyn.
    Cyn quickly opens the cabinet, hiding the blue smudges. She pops the lid on one of the bottles, shakes out two white pills.
    “You sure?” Mad asks.
    She pops them in her mouth, dry swallows. They stick in her throat. Mad hands her a cup of water. The kitchen door opens. Kat carries four eggs in one hand, puts them on the counter.
    “That’s it?” Mad asks.
    “Feed’s almost gone. Surprised we’re getting any eggs at all.” She blows into her cupped hands. “Need to think about eating those chickens before they go to waste.”
    Mad shakes her head, cracking the eggs on the griddle.
    “Can you give them horse feed?” Cyn asks.
    “Not much of that, either. Can’t imagine they’ll make it through winter in the pasture—grass’ll be gone. Maybe it’s best to let them go, fend for themselves.”
    They’d been preparing wood and food for winter, but what if nothing else survived?
    Cyn smears ointment on her heels, dresses them up for another day. Ink smudges the wrappings.

    “No breakfast for them,” Cyn says.
    Mr. Williams and Sid sit at the far end of the table near the door. The old man looks at Cyn at the other end, next to the stove.
    “No, you won’t do that!” Jen slams the table. “You’re not going to take away their food!”
    “This ain’t a camping trip, Jen! Mom and Dad won’t pick us up before it’s over, so let’s get clear. We will run out of food, we will get sick.”
    Jen keeps her fists balled on the table.
    “There’s no room for manners, Jen. Unless something changes, we die. All of us.”
    “I hardly think we’re a threat, Ms. Cyn,” Mr. Williams says. “We’ve agreed to sleep in separate quarters, but it’s not fair to deny us food when we’ve offered to help.”
    “You didn’t agree to anything. We made you leave the bunkhouse at night. You’re lucky we let you sleep in the dinner house.”
    “You did, Cyn,” Jen says. “You made them leave.”
    “And you’ll get food when you talk. You arrive like tourists and haven’t told us anything. I’ve got a feeling you know plenty. Begin with him.” Cyn nods at the kid with the blank stare, the wet lip. “What’s his problem?”
    “It’s complicated,” Mr. Williams growls.
    “Start talking or start starving.”
    “You going to starve me, too?” Jen says.
    “You threaten us, damn right I will.”
    “Or if I just threaten you .”
    Kat and Mad have already finished eating. Jen’s plate is still full. She’ll sneak them food later.
    Not if I can help it.
    “Well, Mr. Williams?” Cyn says. “You hungry yet?”
    He stands up. Sid gets up automatically. Mr. Williams looks out the window at the brick house, still battened down tight as a tank.
    “Okay.” No gold cap glittering this morning. “In private, Ms. Cyn. We’ll talk in private. I’ll leave you to finish your breakfast.”
    They go out the