Page 31 of The Two of Us at the End of the World

She’s not sick, she says.

She’s being sick, I say. All over the floor, you saw it. She’s definitely—

She’s got a baby inside her, Cat says.

But… I say.

And then I don’t say anything for a bit. My mind is sort of blank with shock. Then I say:

She’s too young. Isn’t she?

I don’t know why that was my first reaction, but it came out of my mouth without thinking.

I know, Cat says. But I suppose she must be old enough, because she is.

Neither of us seems to have anything to say for a while, so we just look at the stars who don’t have anything to add either.

That’s why she burned the dinosaur, she says. Why she said he was a sick fuck, giving her a present for the baby.

That’s why they spat on him, I say. That’s why they kicked him.

I look sideways at her because she doesn’t answer. I’m shocked to see the moonlight catch the shine of wetness on her face, and then I realise her cheeks are streaked with tears.

Cat, I say.

She shakes her head and looks away. She can’t talk. So I get out of the seat and do the only thing that ever calms her down when she gets sad like this. I wrap my arms around her and hug her tightly. Sometimes she resists a bit at first because she’s fierce and independent, but this time she just tucks her head into my chest and shakes silently, still too proud to cry out loud. So I just hold her and try to be strong and rooted like an oak tree she can lean on. That’s what I think when I do this, be like a tree, just stand tall and let her lean on you until the storm blows through. These are not moments to talk, not the time to tell her everything’s all right. These are times to just be. So I stand with my chin resting lightly on the top of her head and wait.

After a while I feel her relax, and then after an even longer while she pushes back and deliberately rolls her head from side to side, as if slowly shaking herself back into her body again.

OK, she says. OK.

She’s not pretending? I say.

No, Cat says. Mouse. She’s absolutely got a baby inside her.

I look down at her. She’s looking up at the Milky Way. I know that profile. The one with the set jaw and the chin jutting out. She’s definitely herself again, and that self is angry about this.

She’s too young, I say again. Even if she is pregnant.

Yep, she says.

Can she have a kid? I say. I mean will she actually be able to, you know…

I don’t know, says Cat. Mouse, how could I know any more than you do?

You’re a girl, I say. A woman.

You know how nutty that sounds? she snorts. Given where we are and what we’ve experienced… and by what we’ve experienced, I mean what we haven’t experienced, Mouse.

So what do we do? I say.

She gives the Milky Way another good glare while she thinks about it.

Nothing to do, she says. Not really. Time will take care of all that needs doing, I suppose. We just have to wait and then help her as best we can.

She must be terrified, I say.

Cat nods and carries on looking up at the night.