Ruin - By N.M. Martinez Page 0,30

hairs that cast small shadows. This is something I never would have taken the time to enjoy before back home. I always had a light on when I went to bed. It was a convenience and a comfort to have a light on.

I think back to that night when Mom and me were separated and how I woke in the middle of the night with my heart racing as if I knew something would happen. Now I know what tipped me off to something being wrong when I woke up. My little night light was out. They had probably cut the power to our house to prevent us from turning on lights or calling out for help or disturbing the neighbors with the late night activity. But that hadn't helped when we were out front and Mom saw me. When she screamed my name loud enough to wake everyone and probably send them to their windows to see what happened. Someone had to have seen despite their best efforts to avoid it.

And that thought makes me smile as I fall asleep with my arm still in the moonbeam.

Nine

The next morning, I wake up and lie still. Something feels different about this day. Maybe some internal clock of mine is tricking me into thinking that today is a weekend because we're going to the village today.

Back home, if this were a weekend, I would open the window and let in the fresh air so I could sleep in late. Birds would be chirping this early, sitting in the trees that decorated our street. I shut my eyes and listen for them, but all I hear is quiet. It seems everyone is asleep, including Brandon who would normally be up and making breakfast by now.

I get up and run my fingers through my hair to brush down the stray strands that stick up. Something inside me has opened but nothing is spilling out. It's opened so that I can see inside, and what I see is myself hiding, curled in a ball refusing to actually face what's going on.

It's like there are two parts to me. The one that is here and watching these things going on around me as if I'm not even here, and the other part of me that holds onto thoughts of my mother and home, protecting them with a ferocious fear as if someone might take them away. Or as if letting them free will cut me to ribbons.

I've only fooled myself into thinking that I was ready and that I was handling things when, really, I was still looking for a way to avoid looking at my future. But after last night, though it's still too soon, I know I have to do something. I have to find a way to live with what I know and find out more.

I pull the sleeves of the sweatshirt down. For a moment, I contemplate taking it off. The apartment is chilly, but not cold enough to require walking around with a sweatshirt on. Plus I slept in it, so it's all wrinkled and still smelling faintly of smoke. I don't though. I leave it on, smoothing it out, holding onto it and the memory of my mother. If she were here, she wouldn't be afraid. Or if she was afraid, she would still do what she needed to in order to survive.

When I step out of the room, Brandon is still laying on the couch. The apartment is dimly lit with the pale gray light from the rising sun bouncing off the bare walls. He'd normally be ready to head out before the sun has made its proper appearance, but it's technically his day off so he can get more supplies and drag me along with him as another important lesson about the Wildlands.

At the sight of me, he pushes himself up with his arms, slowly uncurling from his spot and then running a hand through his hair. “Hey.”

Right away I feel bad for waking him, but I'm so used to waking up early these past few days that it's become automatic.

“It's not your fault,” he says as he scrapes at the dark stubble at his chin. “I'm used to getting up early too.”

Even though I know now, it still surprises me that he responds to my thought so quickly. I realize he's been doing that all along, and I just never noticed before.

I sit down on the couch near him. His hair sticks up, and it makes