Outrun the Moon(55)

“I’ll miss living in San Francisco,” says Harry. “This feels like home.”

Normally, this time of day is cool enough to keep a cod outside, but the temperature of the city seems to have risen by several degrees, and the air wraps around me like a thick blanket. I’ve become numb to the stench of burning wood, but the particles still make me cough.

“Not going to be much of a home when everything is burned,” Katie says gravely.

“Don’t say that,” says Francesca. “They’ll get the fires put out.”

At that moment, a team of horses blazes past, pulling a fire engine with a shiny chrome steamer that bounces and jostles along the uneven road.

“Dear Lord,” breathes Francesca. “I hope that’s the last of the shaking. Every time a wagon goes by, I want to jump out of my skin.”

Katie swerves to avoid a buckled paving stone. “We overheard some conversations when you were at the Missing People Books. They said the water mains were busted, and that firemen were bringing water from boats to load the steamers.”

We approach a storefront with the words Gil’s Grocery painted in green letters on the awning. The second story looks ready to collapse, its ceiling bulging dangerously low. As we pass, we peer into the broken windows, all of us probably thinking the same thing. The sight of cans and dried goods makes my stomach rumble. Even my hunger saddens me—a reminder that I still must live, while Jack and Ma cannot. For the first time in my life, I wish the dead did return as ghosts, for then I could see them again.

“It’s too dangerous,” says Francesca as if sensing my thoughts. “That ceiling is about to collapse.”

“Yeah, one sneeze would change that bi-level into a flat,” says Katie.

We keep moving and soon come to a house that has been reduced to a mountain of bricks. “Here’s good,” I tell them. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

Katie glances around. “I hope they don’t mind us taking their bricks.”

I perch on an uprooted tree to dislodge a pebble from my boot. “I hope they’re not lying dead under their bricks.”

Harry shudders. “Oh, that would be dreadful.”

Francesca pushes a hard chunk with her toe. “Are you sure we should be doing this? I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Think of it this way. They’ve got to clear out all these bricks to rebuild. We’re doing them a favor.”

Katie picks up an unbroken block. “Makes sense to me.”

We load the bricks into our crates. People hurry by on foot, hoof, or wheel, but no one calls out our looting. It’s just junk now, anyway.

On the way back, we pass Gil’s Grocery again. I stop, and since I’m in the front, the other girls stop, too. “I would hate for all that food to go to waste.”

Katie moans. “I think my stomach’s digesting itself.”

Francesca tries to lift our crate again, but I don’t pick up my end. She sighs. “It’s hardly worth risking your life over.”

I silently disagree. For some reason I can’t explain, I want to take that risk, thumb my nose at fate, even though it’s as foolhardy as running barefoot through a glass shop. “The ceiling hasn’t fallen yet.”

Harry shifts from foot to foot as I study the grocery more closely. The door has come off its hinges. Cans litter the floor, along with broken crates and squashed produce. Cooking utensils dangle from a ceiling rack that looks dangerously close to snapping off completely.

“Don’t do it,” says Francesca. “It’d be stealing.”

“And taking sassafras and bricks isn’t? We wouldn’t take it if we didn’t absolutely need it. We’ll pay them one day.”

She chews on her lip, knowing she can’t stop me.

“I will be fast, I promise.” I consider telling her what I want on my headstone, too, just in case, but decide that would not help instill confidence.

I gingerly approach the doorway and, when nothing happens, step inside. The dust makes a cough build in me. I try to hold it in, but I can’t, and out it comes with the force of a cough denied.

When my eyes have cleared, I check for any sign of movement, and seeing none, quickly gather supplies into my arms. Pasta, olive oil, bacon. I also lift a bag of rice, and a yellow can of creamed corn, because I always wondered what that was, exactly. At the last minute, I grab a box of salt and a large spoon.

As I lift the spoon from the ceiling rack, I hear a creaking from somewhere above. A bolt of panic shoots through me. Fly, foolish girl, fly!

I leap out the door, spilling groceries everywhere. The girls are yelling at me. I roll and roll, like I’m the world’s last sausage that a pack of dogs just caught wind of.

Hands lift me up and hold me steady. Someone slaps dirt off me. I heave in giant gulps of air, giddy and sick all at once. With a last groan as if to say I can’t hold it anymore, the second story of Gil’s Grocery crushes the first, releasing plumes of dust that fan out to the other side of the street.

No one speaks for a moment. Clouds of powder rise off the store, now a twisted heap of wood and splinters. A breathless sense of exhilaration wings through me. Cheating death makes me feel invincible, as if I could step off a roof and the sky would catch me.

Don’t you get too greedy, Death. You already have taken more than your fair share today. You can’t have me yet.