roll off his shoulders easily. “It hasn't been that long for her. Let her get used to things. I'm going to the village in a few days. That'll help."
Henri sighs again as if my staying with Brandon is an inconvenience for him. He rises slowly. “Fine. Another week. But you tell Jimmy.”
Brandon nods and moves out of the way to let Henri pass. His eyes stay glued to the ground until the door has shut and we can both hear Henri stomping down the stairs. Then he looks up at me with a small smile.
I unfold my legs and stand up while trying to think of a way to thank him. A hug this early in our relationship seems inappropriate, but a simply spoken thank you doesn't seem to be enough.
He seems to sense my unsureness and lifts a hand. “It's okay. I know.”
I'm not sure how he knows, but I'm grateful all the same. Still, I find I have to ask. “Who's Jimmy? Why won't he like this? I'm not getting you in trouble, am I?”
He actually laughs at that. “It's complicated. But don't worry about it. We've got a week to get you ready to live with Henri.”
A week is a ridiculously short length of time. I bring my hands together and the letter brushes against my skin. My throat tightens at the reminder in the face of this small victory. It's only been days and it will be a few days more before things will change again.
Six
A wind kicks up blowing my hair into my face and I shove it back behind my ears as I stand on the balcony, leaning over the rail while watching the people below. I’m alone. Mitchell hasn’t shown himself in the last couple of days and I don’t exactly blame him. The leader of the Southlands was here, looking for me.
The letter from my mom still sits on the table next to the bed where I put it right after he left. I keep hoping for more strength to face the truth, but I've reached my limit and if I try to take any more on I will probably just explode. It's ridiculous. What if her letter contains some important information? Maybe there's an explanation or a warning in it or even just a last "I love you" inside.
The people below all stand around like they normally do. I'm not quite sure what their function is or even if it's the same people every time. I scan the crowd down below again, my fingers resting lightly on the cool rail, and I try my best to start picking out details of people that I can see from stories up so that I can start noting if I see them every day or not. Staring and studying people is rude to do back home, but here no one looks at me. Who would notice a girl three stories up observing everyone?
But someone does. Or perhaps I notice him first. The sunlight catches in his eyes and from three stories up I can spot the impossible green of his irises as he walks forward. I can't look away from him. A dark tank top exposes his arms and the dark spots of tattoos against his tanned skin.
My breath catches for a moment, and in the space it takes to not exhale, another man is attacked.
The crowd below moves suddenly, forming a circle around the man on the ground. At first I think that they're all going to attack him, but then I notice the shirtless man standing in the center.
Muffled pleas are absorbed by the bodies surrounding him who do nothing but watch. But then he manages to call out loudly, "Please!" It bounces into the air and off the tall buildings around us. In response, his attacker kicks him in the face.
My hand falls over my mouth. I'm transfixed, unable to move away from this scene until I know how it ends even though there is only one way this can go.
An object in the attacker's hand catches a glint of sunlight. He holds it down by his side, the shiny sharp point facing down towards the ground. It's a knife he holds, waiting for the moment that he will bring it to use against the man on the ground. He steps to the man with his head lowered, strands of his hair falling forward over his forehead and face. Many of the people in the crowd remain stoic, but some of