Ruin - By N.M. Martinez Page 0,23

days ago. I need to learn more about this place to survive.

"Are you seriously thinking about going out there?" he says as he raises an eyebrow.

It surprises me that he picks up on that so quickly, but I don't bother mentioning it. It's just more proof that Brandon is the sort of person who notices small details which means that there's no point in trying to lie to him. "Maybe."

That makes him grin. "I'll take you if you say so."

It's the first choice I've had since our house was invaded in the middle of the night. I can stay hidden here in the apartment or I can go outside with Brandon and see the others I've watched from the balcony up close. I lift my chin and take a deep breath intending to make the choice that's the obvious right one, the one that is most beneficial to my learning to live here and beginning to accept my fate, but instead I find myself blurting out, "Is it even safe for me to be out there?"

By the dim light of the lamp, his eyes are clear as the corners of his mouth curve up. "Well, yeah. I mean, I am Henri's son."

True. He is Henri's son. No one's going to hurt the leader's children. That alone isn't enough to make me feel safe even if it is enough to make him feel it's okay. But I find that I don't want to stay hidden. If I'm going to learn to survive, I need to face this new reality and learn more.

"I want to go." My voice is small. Despite this new strength and determination, my voice quivers and so I speak softly in an attempt to hide it.

Brandon looks doubtful. Still he accepts my decision. "All right, well, you're going to get cold. You need a jacket or an extra shirt or something."

I doubt that I have a jacket. That night they only let me pack what was in my dresser drawers. Maybe I could've packed more, but when you're faced with the barrel of a gun it's hard to remember things like coats. Still, I go to the room and dig around in my duffle to see what I did bring and find an old grey sweatshirt.

I recognize it just by touch and weight. This was my mother's old ratty sweatshirt. It was sizes too big for her and relegated to being one of those pieces of clothing she wore only inside the house and maybe for a second if she had to run to the end of the driveway to pick up mail.

This is an unexpected piece of her that somehow found its way into my clothes. My throat swells, but I don't cry. I never borrowed her clothes. One of us must have mistakenly put it in my dresser drawer with my clothes.

Brandon calls to me softly, asking if I'm ready or I've changed my mind. I toss the sweatshirt on over my head, the insides scratching at my nose but instantly warming me. It's stupid, but I do feel a little safer. Like a reminder that Mom is with me even when she's not, that I do have some part of her in me, and if she saw me now, she'd be proud of me.

We walk down the stairs to the ground floor. At night the whole place is even more sinister lit only by the faint flickering of light from the fire pits.

At the foot of the stairs, Brandon waits for me with his hands in his pockets. I stare straight at him, some dark deep part of my brain warning me that the attack happened here, just feet away from where I'm standing. It's a thought I drown out as Brandon smiles at me as if to give me encouragement. But there's also the smallest hint of pride from him and I can only guess that it comes from seeing me take such bold steps in so short a time. I wrap my arms tightly around myself, gripping the worn sweatshirt.

Downstairs, people stand around the fire pits talking and laughing. Some couples hang out on the edge of the light with their arms around each other, some kiss, some practically rubbing against each other and I turn my head away. It's not bothering anyone else, and if I stare that will only make it more obvious that I'm an outsider. Not that it isn't obvious already.

There's a girl dressed in a normal old shirt,