The back of my throat burns, and I gaze around me wildly, my mind blank. “We should…”
“Meryn and I will take the blocks west of here,” Lee repeats when I drift off. “Can you two start checking north?” He takes me by the arm, tugs.
The icy kiss of snowflakes against my cheeks brings me back into focus. It’s coming down harder now, I think absently.
Lee and I are jogging, then running, peeling down each street and alley, shouting Saela’s name. The streets are deserted at this hour, apart from a few ragged-looking rats, and one miserable street hound that watches us pass from his modest shelter under a stoop. Broken glass and icy drifts crunch under my boots, the sound muffled by the falling of the surrounding snow. The drifts of white make the streets appear ghostly and barren.
We stop to catch our breath after maybe an hour of searching.
“Maybe we should?—”
“Split up?” Lee says. He steps closer, hands coming up to frame my face. “We’d cover more ground that way. But Meryn… are you…”
The concern in his eyes makes me wild, and I spin away out of reach. “I’m fine. Just go. You should head toward Central. She might have gone there… Meet me back at my house in the morning to tell me if you’ve found anything?” I don’t look back to see if he follows my instructions before taking off again down the next alley.
I push faster and faster, zigzagging down each street, eyes darting to every corner, every shadow, every place that she could be. Inside, I block out the voice telling me that the children are never found. That there’s nothing anyone can do.
I refuse to do nothing. I refuse.
Hours later, day breaks cold and wet, the snowflakes turning to slush, gray under my boots. The sooty mix drips from gutters, and puddles in street-side ditches. Early morning workers emerge from their homes, giving me a wide berth, averting their eyes.
The world is a blur, my mind numb with exhaustion. I don’t know what hour it is when I finally admit defeat, turning toward home.
Igor and Lee are there already, sitting outside my front door. I can tell without either of them saying a word that there’s not been any sign of her.
Lee tries to stop me as I go into the house. I just pull away, out of his grip. He’s saying something, but all the sounds of the world around me have been replaced by a dull buzzing. I retreat to my room, shut the door in his face.
This is all my fault.
Time drifts.
I lay mindless in Saela’s bed, wrapped in the sheets and blanket that still smell faintly of her.
Mother has checked on me a few times, lucid enough to know what’s wrong, to realize what’s happened. At the misery in her expression, I turn my face to the wall.
Women from the neighborhood drop by in shifts—workers from the laundry, mothers of Saela’s school friends, old friends of my mothers that I haven’t seen in years. They bring food, bread, cautiously pushing into my room and leaving plates on the floor when I refuse to speak.
Afterward I hear them chatting in hushed tones with my mother, if she’s awake. More times than not, they leave silently, receiving no welcome from either of us.
I can’t bring myself to care. The plates of food sit on the floor, untouched.
“She hasn’t eaten a bite,” comes my mother’s voice, hours or days later. I don’t know how long it’s been.
Mother sounds lucid, sane. As if losing her daughter has shored up what reserves her mind has left.
“It’s just like what happened with her father, after his first year at the front. He didn’t speak for five days after he got back. Wasted half his leave that way.” Mother’s voice cracks, and guilt blooms inside me, hot and red.
Father. He was supposed to protect us. And then he left us, left and never came back.
I was supposed to protect Saela. I promised her.
My fingers twitch toward the dagger I keep near my bed. When my father died, that worked, sometimes—giving myself pain to focus on, something to feel other than this. The sharp slice would chase away the darkness from my brain, removing all sensation other than the dagger meeting my arm or thigh.
But I can’t find the energy to stir, not even for this. I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows move strangely across the room as the day comes and goes.
The room is dark again when Igor appears in the doorway, stooping to step through the low frame. “Enough, Meryn.” His voice cuts through the room like a knife.
Unlike the others, there’s no pity in his tone, no sympathy.
