Outrun the Moon(61)

“Will we be here that long?” asks Harry. It’s the first she’s spoken since the leeching.

“I hope not. But it’s always good to be prepared.”

Francesca’s dark eyes look luminous against her pale skin. “What are you suggesting?”

“Tonight, we fed a dozen, but tomorrow, I bet we can feed twice, no, three times that, or . . .” My mind whirls with numbers, and lands on four, my numeral nemesis. If I can feed forty-four people, I can turn that inauspicious number into something good for both me and my ma.

Forty-four people from different cultures would make one big neighborhood—the way Jack thought we should live, at least for a night. I will honor both of their memories, maybe even bettering their stations in the afterlife. “Tomorrow, we make a feast for forty-four.”

Katie’s nose crinkles. “Why forty-four?”

“It slides off the tongue: feast for forty-four.” If they knew of our superstitions, they might think us narrow-minded, when in fact Ma was the wisest person I knew. I poke another log into the fire and watch the flame spread.

“But how?” asks Francesca. “You heard the woman. She said they’re shooting looters on the spot.”

Harry’s hand flies to her mouth, and Katie crosses her arms over her narrow chest. “Shooting them? Living people are a dying breed.”

“That’s why we need to help. Who’s going to feed them if we don’t? Plus, dying by gunshot is an easier way to go than slow starvation.”

“Gran always said, ‘Who needs a clear conscience to be happy when a full stomach does the job even quicker.’”

Francesca sets another pot of water on the flame. “Food is comfort. Best feeling in the world is when a patron comes in looking glum and leaves with a smile.” She pours half the bag of rice into the pot, adds a dash of salt, then stirs. “That’s why I wanted my parents to leave the restaurant to me, not my brother.” She tosses me a grin. “Mercy blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”

“Is that from the Bible?”

“No.” Her grin widens. “Shakespeare. If you think we can do it, Mercy, I’m in with both feet.” She wipes her hand on the front of her dress, then holds it out. I place mine on top.

Katie adds her hand. “Pile on the pancakes. Come on, Harry, pour on the syrup.”

Harry seems to startle at hearing her name. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and stares at our hands. Then, with the solemnity of a judge being sworn to office, she tops off the pile.

Another explosion booms from far away, and a siren begins to wail. But we don’t let our hands fall.





28



INSIDE THE TENT, HARRY AND FRANCESCA lie between Katie and me, the warmest bodies of the bunch. The cold never bothered me much. Ah-Suk says it’s because I have good energy, which I got from Ma.

Francesca rolls onto her stomach. “Should we invite the other girls to join us in making tomorrow’s dinner?”

“They may not want to because of the looting order,” Harry says quietly.

I tap my chin. “So we give them a choice. Leave it to me.”

“We’ll find some other groceries. But not like Gil’s.” Francesca looks at me darkly.

“We can’t bring the crates,” I say. “Too obvious.” Grass pokes my cheek through the canvas floor. “Remember the deli on Hayes where we got the sassafras? It looked intact, except for the windows.”

Francesca nods. “Maybe they’ll have some crusty old bread, and I’ll make chicken parmigiana with the bread crumbs.” She’s so close I can feel the warmth of her breath. “Of course, we’d need to get a chicken for that, and a good knife. One chicken normally feeds about four people, but with pasta and small portions, we can stretch it.”

Jack loved chicken, especially chicken soup with lots of ginger and red dates.

I try to focus on her chatter to keep my mind off him, but it’s impossible, like holding up a crate of bricks for too long. The memories come falling down. The careful way he folded his only shirt. The time he walked seven blocks with a cone of sugared ice that had melted down his arm by the time he finally found me to share it with. If only I hadn’t been in such a rush to go off to school, I would have been there when the earthquake hit. I could have saved them.

Or died trying.



Dawn breaks like a duck egg, spilling a golden light into the fog. Ash litters the grass, a bleak reminder that though we may not see the destruction from our park haven, it is real just the same.

Did Ba sleep last night? I wonder again if he is safe. I wonder if he thinks I’m dead. The burned tang of smoke still hangs in the air, and the sirens have started up again, or maybe they never stopped. Maybe those sounds and smells have become part of the landscape here, as permanent as the fog and the hills.

I crawl out of our tent and am surprised to see Elodie sitting cross-legged on the wet lawn, drinking the last of the water from our fruit jar. A journal lies open on her lap, pencil in the seam.

I nod to her and rub the sleeves of my Chinese jacket. At least she could’ve thought to start the fire. “Good morning.”

“If you say so.” Plum-colored circles underscore her eyes.

“I heard about your mother. I’m sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do—”