Shatter Me - Tahereh Mafi Page 0,63

your house the first place Warner will go looking for you? Isn’t this dangerous?”

“It would be. But according to public records, I don’t have a home.”

“And your brother?”

“Would be Warner’s first target. It’s safer for him where I can watch over him. Warner knows I have a brother, he just doesn’t know where. And until he figures it out—which he will—we have to prepare.”

“To fight?”

“To fight back. Yeah.” Even in the dim light of this foreign space I can see the determination holding him together. It makes me want to sing.

I close my eyes. “Good.”

“What’s taking you so long?” James shouts in the distance.

And we’re off.

The parking garage is located underneath an old abandoned office building buried in the shadows. A fire exit leads directly up to the main floor.

James is so excited he’s jumping up and down the stairs, running forward a few steps only to run back to complain we’re not coming fast enough. Adam catches him from behind and lifts him off the floor. He laughs. “You’re going to break your neck.”

James protests but only halfheartedly. He’s all too happy to have his brother back.

A sharp pang of some distant kind of emotion hits me in the heart. It hurts in a bittersweet way I can’t place. I feel oddly warm and numb at the same time.

Adam punches a pass code into a keypad by a massive steel door. There’s a soft click, a short beep, and he turns the handle.

I’m stunned by what I see inside.

THIRTY-TWO

It’s a full living room, open and plush. A thick rug, soft chairs, one sofa stretched across the wall. Green and red and orange hues, warm lamps softly lit in the large space. It feels more like a home than anything I’ve ever seen. The cold, lonely memories of my childhood can’t even compare. I feel so safe so suddenly it scares me.

“You like it?” Adam is grinning at me, amused no doubt by the look on my face. I manage to pick my jaw up off the floor.

“I love it,” I say, out loud or in my head I’m unsure.

“Adam did it,” James says, proud, puffing his chest out a little more than necessary. “He made it for me.”

“I didn’t make it,” Adam protests, chuckling. “I just . . . cleaned it up a bit.”

“You live here by yourself?” I ask James.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and nods. “Benny stays with me a lot, but mostly I’m here alone. I’m lucky, though.”

Adam is dropping our bags onto the couch. He runs a hand through his hair and I watch as the muscles in his back flex, tight, pulled together. I watch as he exhales the tension from his body.

I know why, but I ask anyway. “Why are you lucky?”

“Because I have a visitor. None of the other kids have visitors.”

“There are other kids here?” I hope I don’t look as horrified as I feel.

James is nodding so quickly his head is wobbling on his neck. “Oh yeah. This whole street. All the kids are here. I’m the only one with my own room, though.” He gestures around the space. “This is all mine because Adam got it for me. But everyone else has to share. We have school, sort of. And Benny brings me my food packages. Adam says I can play with the other kids but I can’t bring them inside.” He shrugs. “It’s okay.”

The reality of what he’s saying spreads like poison in the pit of my stomach.

A street dedicated to orphaned children.

I wonder how their parents died. I don’t wonder for long.

I take inventory of the room and notice a tiny refrigerator and a tiny microwave perched on top, both nestled into a corner, see some cabinets set aside for storage. Adam brought as much stuff as he could—all sorts of canned food and nonperishable items. We both brought our toiletries and multiple sets of clothes. We packed enough to survive for at least a little while.

James pulls a tinfoil package out of the fridge and sticks it in the microwave.

“Wait—James—don’t—” I try to stop him.

His eyes are wide, frozen. “What?”

“The tinfoil—you can’t—you can’t put metal in the microwave—”

“What’s a microwave?”

I blink so many times the room spins. “What . . . ?”

He pulls the lid off the tinfoil container to reveal a small square. It looks like a bouillon cube. He points to the cube and then nods at the microwave. “It’s okay. I always put this in the Automat. Nothing happens.”

“It takes the