worse than Cordelia. Cordelia is kind of pretty.”
“Mama certainly thought so, although she usually just called me Delia. She was a Shakespeare professor and she named me after a character in one of his plays.”
“Our mama worked at the Walmart,” Riley said. “But then she got killed by a man who was mad that there was no more medicine in the store.”
This was stated with a bald matter-of-factness, as if the child were a news anchor reading off the day’s tragedies at six p.m.
“I’m sorry to hear that. What about your dad?” Red asked.
“Riley!” the other child said, but the admonition didn’t stop Riley from continuing. Red bet if she stayed still long enough Riley would tell her all about his/her favorite movie, pet, the last time he/she had pizza . . . the kid just had that kind of vibe.
“He got the Cough and then he died. At first I thought it was better that Daddy wasn’t killed like Mama, because that was terrible, thinking Mama would come home and then she didn’t because some crazy person shot her over something that wasn’t even her fault,” Riley said. “But then Daddy got the Cough and there was so much blood. We couldn’t even go near him because there was so much blood, and that made me sad because I wanted to at least kiss him good-bye but we couldn’t go near him, we might have got the infection. Where’s your mama and daddy?”
“My mama got the Cough, too,” Red said.
She hesitated, wondering if she should tell them the rest of the truth. Her mama had gotten the Cough, it was true, and it probably would have killed her if that pack of jackals hadn’t come along. It might be enough just to tell them that.
Then she realized that protecting little kids from the truth was a relic from an old world, and that these kids had surely seen just how bad people could be since the Crisis started. Their mother was killed for no damn reason whatsoever. They knew the world wasn’t a shiny cotton-candy fair ride. There was no reason to lie.
“My mama got the Cough,” Red said again. “And probably my dad would have gotten it too, and they both would have died from it. But before that happened some men came along to our house and attacked them.”
She felt something clogging her throat as she said this, unable to speak of it with the same detachment that Riley had. It didn’t really matter how much time passed, because the deep and profound unfairness of it all surged back on her every time.
Mama would have gotten sick and died anyway but at least that was a normal, natural thing in a world infected with a deadly virus. It was not normal or natural for people to come to your house wanting to kill you for stupid reasons.
Riley scooted a little closer, close enough that Red could have reached through the gap in the brush and touched that solemn little face.
“And they were killed?” Riley said, with the same respectful hush that you might use in church.
“Yes,” Red said, because that was all that she could manage.
She’d thought she had processed it, dealt with it, put it all behind her. She’d thought she wouldn’t drag all that hurt with her like a suitcase with a broken wheel. But she was still dragging it behind her, even if she couldn’t see the tracks. “Me and my brother got away.”
“Where’s your brother?” Riley asked. “How come you’re all alone?”
“My brother is gone now,” Red said.
Riley nodded, seeking no further explanation. It was a world of terrors, after all. “Did your mama get the Cough that makes you explode?”
“Explode?” Red said. If she’d had antennae they would have stood up. As it was she thought some of her curls tried pushing out from under her woolly hat.
“Some of the people with the Cough, you know, they explode. Like their chests bust open,” Riley said. “Not all of them.”
“Riley, shut up,” the other child said.
“I haven’t seen anyone with the Cough do that,”