I stop. It’s not coming from the front door at all. It’s coming from theback.
My curiosity is piqued; the Grave is not a back door community. Pulling the curtain aside, I peek out of the windowthat oversees the back porch and stare for a few puzzling seconds.
Huh.
Throwing open the door, I see a fragile blonde woman standing there, her big blue eyes wide with anticipation. Denise. She lives a couple of condos down from us—and it’s actually hers from the before days—and is holding a bundle of black fabric close to her chest. She’s brought me one of her black hooded sweatshirts, saying that since we’re both petite, it would fit me better than Rory’s jacket. Plus, the hood is enough of a disguise in case I want to pretend I’m a lurker. She gives me a quick hug, then scurries away before I can say a single word to her.
I’m left standing there with my lips slightly parted, holding a sweatshirt that smells surprisingly of cotton candy.
One of Rory’s old friends comes by soon after. Lisa has two empty bottles of vodka, and she tells me to add them to my collection for firebombs; they’re not completely empty either, she confides, since one or two drops of the alcohol will add to the flame. I take them from her gratefully, knowing that I’ll have to leave them behind. A bag of glass bottles will only slow me down, and who knows what sort of monsters I’ll attract with the incessant clinking. But the thought’s still there.
I just wish I knewwhy.
The knocks are never-ending after that, my neighbors all stealing up to the back porch with little trinkets and good wishes. Even Mrs. Baker brings me a plate full of chocolate chip cookies as one last treat before I go. None of them knock at the front door, almost as if they’re afraid of coming face to face with Jack. I don’t blame them, and I thank each and every one of my neighbors, not only for what they give me, but because it seems like it’s all their blessing for me to go.
It doesn’t take me too long to pack my bag, though the interruptions make it a tougher task than it should be. It’s an oldbackpack of mine, from before the world Turned and I used to go hiking with my brother. Dark green and trimmed with black, it won’t stand out in the darkness. It also has plenty of pockets and pouches to hold whatever I’m bringing.
A change of clothes, spare socks, a can of hairspray, a brush, a stick of deodorant, some mouthwash, and about twenty-five books of matches all go into the main pouch. I add eight lighters, a tightly sealed container full of gasoline tucked safely inside of two Ziploc bags, plus three ripped pieces of washcloth just in case the opportunity to make a rig comes up. On the off-chance I come across a random mirror and can’t control myself, I tuck tweezers in with the lighters.
Lastly, I add a picture taken of my family last Christmas, right before the Turning. I don’t really like to look at old photographs, obviously, but… I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right not bringing one with me.
In a way, if I bring Mom, Jack, Rory, and Hallie with me, it’s not like I’m really going out on my own for the first time.
I’ve just tugged the last zipper closed on my backpack when I hear the back door opening downstairs, shutting just as quickly. I freeze, barely even breathing as I listen?—
“Allie?”
My stomach twists.
Shit.
Jack.
Hiding up in my borrowed bedroom is pointless. I have to get this over with anyway so it might as well be now.
Leaving my pack on the bed, I head right for the kitchen.
“Hey. You called for me?”
I expected to find Jack leaning against the counter like he spent our morning chat. Nope. He’s sitting at the table again, though he isn’t pretending to drink Chase’s leftover coffee. He has a glass of water in front of him instead, plus a pair of brown pills. His hand is over his face.
I zero in on the pills. Aspirin from his private bottle, I recognize, guts twisting in guilt. Shit. He only dips into that bottle when his migraines are unbearable.
Me, I think. I caused this headache.
I bite down on my bottom lip, waiting for him to acknowledge me. I… I really don’t want to do this. If I could just grab the pack, dash out the back door, and leave without having to see the fear and the worry he’s struggling with, I would.
But I can’t, and not only because he finally scrubs his palm down his face. He drops his hand to the table, showing me a pair of red-rimmed eyes and a shaky frown and,fuck,I should’ve taken the coward’s way out after all.
“Allie,” he says, his voice scratchy, “please, sit down.”
Jack looks like he’s aged ten years since this morning. Part of me wants to ask him why he tried to keep the stranger’s arrival from me; the other part hasn’t forgotten he had pancakes with Chase and hid that, too. I stay quiet. I’m leaving. There’s no denying that. Why make my last conversation with my dad an argument?
Because it could be. My last conversation with him, I mean.
That unsettling thought overwhelming me, I grab a seat, yank it back, drop down onto it. I can’t look at Jack. Suddenly, it’s as though the grain of the wood on our adopted table is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t stop staring at it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he places the two pills under his tongue, takes a swig from his glass, and tilts his head back. His Adam’s apple bounces as he swallows. He winces as if even the sound of the glass hitting the table is too much for him.This migraine must be terrible. I’ve only ever seen him get like this after Mom… I shake my head, pushing that memory roughly away.
