Scarlet

gray and white, instead of the mix of blues found on European pilots, it still looked remarkably like the clothes her grandma had worn in her military days.
    She’d clutched the plain white T-shirt to her and cried into it for so long it was almost as soiled as the clothes she was supposed to be changing out of.
    Her entire body was throbbing as the tears finally began to dry up. Gasping for breath, she rolled onto her back and wiped the last streaks away with the cotton. Every time her crying had started to subside before, the words would echo in her head, Grand-mère is gone, and send her into another torrent. But the words were becoming hollow, the sting fading into numbness.
    Her stomach growled.
    Groaning, Scarlet settled a hand on top of it, wondering if she just shut her eyes and went to sleep, would her body forget that it hadn’t eaten in more than a day? But as she lay there, willing the numbness to take over, her stomach rumbled again. Louder.
    Scarlet sniffed, annoyed. Grabbing hold of the bunk overhead, she pulled herself to sitting. Her head swam with dizziness and dehydration, but she managed to stumble to the door.
    She heard a crash from the galley as soon as she pulled it open. Peering down the hallway, she saw Wolf hunkered over a counter, holding a tin can.
    Stepping into the galley’s light, Scarlet saw that the can was labeled with a picture of cartoon-red tomatoes. Judging from the enormous dents in its side, Wolf had been trying to open it with a meat tenderizer.
    He glanced up at her, and she was glad that she wasn’t the only one red faced. “Why would they put food in here if they were going to make it so hard to open?”
    She bit her lip against a weak smile, not sure if it was from pity or amusement. “Did you try a can opener?”
    At Wolf’s blank expression, she stepped around the table and riffled through the top drawer. “We Earthens have all sorts of special tools like this,” she said, emerging with the can opener. She clamped it around the can’s lid and slowly twisted it open.
    Wolf’s ears glowed pink as he curled back the lid and frowned down at the bright red goop. “That’s not what I was expecting.”
    “They’re not farm fresh like you’ve become accustomed to, but we’re just going to have to make do.” Digging through the cabinet, Scarlet cobbled together a can of olives and a jar of marinated artichoke hearts. “Here, we’ll have an antipasto.”
    She felt the lightest touch against her hair and ducked away. Wolf’s hand dropped down, gripping the edge of the counter. “I’m sorry. You had—your hair—”
    Setting down the jars, Scarlet felt for the back of her hair, finding it knotted and tangled as a haystack. She shoved the olives at Wolf. “Why don’t you give the can opener a try?”
    Mindlessly picking at the tangles, she found a fork and sat down at the long table. It had years of military personnel’s initials carved into the top, reminding her of her prison cell in the opera house. Though being on the ship was immeasurably better than being stuck in that basement, the confinement of it still pressed in around her, almost suffocating. She knew that her grandma had probably been stationed on a similar ship during her time in the military. No wonder she’d retired to a farm, with all the sky and horizon a person could want.
    She hoped that Émilie was still taking care of the animals.
    When she couldn’t find any more knots, she smoothed down her hair with both hands, then twisted open the jar of artichokes. Glancing up, she saw that Wolf was still standing with the olives and tomatoes clasped in each hand.
    “Are you all right?”
    His eyes flashed. Panic, she thought. Maybe fear.
    “Why did you bring me here?” he said. “Why didn’t you just leave me?”
    Looking down, she speared an artichoke and watched the oil drizzle back into the jar. “I don’t know. I didn’t exactly stop to weigh the pros and cons.” She let the artichoke heart plop back down into the marinade. “But it didn’t feel right to leave you there.”
    He turned his back on her, setting the cans on the counter, and picked up the can opener. On the third try, he managed to clip it to the olive can’s lid and twist it around the edge.
    “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” said Scarlet. “Before we got to Paris?”
    “It wouldn’t have mattered.” He set the opened cans on the table. “You still would have insisted on going after your grandmother.