The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(20)

Our diet consisted of pre-packaged sandwiches and over-processed meats—thanks to a forage to a local store—and we chased the awful taste away with orange juice and soda.

Every hour spent in town, sneaking in shadows and staying hidden, drained me. I hated being surrounded by people. I hated watching my back and suspecting everyone.

I missed the simplicity of nature and the basic rules of win or lose.

Trees couldn’t lie to you.

Bushes couldn’t hurt you.

Humans were complicated creatures, and smiles were full of poison.

I didn’t let Della come with me on any of my explorations, not because I worried she would prefer to trade our wilderness life for a family who didn’t want her but because I feared she’d be stolen from me.

She was cute and smart and far too brave for her own good.

She’d make anyone an excellent daughter or special task giver like the girls Mr. Mclary invited into the house.

She had to be protected at all costs and kept hidden from everyone.

On my third scout for food, I ran past a bookstore with local newspapers displayed in the window. The black and white pictures stood out from squashed lines of unreadable text. Ever since seeing Della on TV, I’d studied the images of children on magazines and stories in newspapers, searching to see if the Mclarys were still searching for us.

I didn’t know what I’d do if they were hunting for my one and only friend.

Over the past few months, Della and I had fallen into a habit we were both content with. She learned so fast—intently watching me do chores around the camp, until one day, she’d try to copy me as if she’d been doing it her entire life.

Collecting firewood—or more like fire sticks—she’d scatter them around instead of pile for an easy blaze. She’d fist the slippery soap and smear it on clothing without rinsing—mainly because she didn’t fully grasp what she was doing and also because she was banned from going near the river unless I was with her.

She even tried to steal my knife one night after watching me sharpen the end of a stick to grill a fish over an open flame.

I’d drawn the line at that.

I liked her with ten fingers. She didn’t need to copy me in everything and end up with nine.

Out of the two of us, Della talked constantly while I said hardly anything at all. She’d point at things all around us: sparrow, rock, plate, mug, water…waiting for me to name it before storing away the sound to be used later.

It hinted at yet another future complication in our life.

Education.

She was a sponge, and I only had a limited amount of knowledge for her to soak up. I could teach her how to live on nothing and not only stay alive in the forest but flourish, but I couldn’t teach her the things that people learned in schools.

I couldn’t show her what a real family was or how parents made you feel. I didn’t know those things myself, so how could I pass on such details?

Throughout the months when she grew from baby to toddler, I grew harder and older but also softened thanks to her sweet innocence toward everything. She wasn’t dragged down by hate or grudges. She didn’t judge anything before she’d tasted or tested it for herself.

She taught me not to be so narrow-minded, granting a fleeting chance to be a child again when such a novelty had been stolen from me.

I often found my heart swelling with warmth for my young, tiny friend and cracking in pain knowing this life we shared couldn’t go on forever.

She would eventually need more.

She would eventually outgrow me.

But for now, at least, I’d upheld my side of the bargain and kept her safe.

As we hung out, hidden and miserable from the weather in some stranger’s shed, I played the naming game with Della and answered her eager finger as it flew from mower to sickle to drill to axe to rake. Rusted tools rested unused and forgotten, draped with cobwebs and dusted in beetle carcasses.

She repeated the words quietly like an eager parrot, her eyes aglow with learning.

We couldn’t light a fire, so we spent our evenings huddled together in the sleeping bag, looking for ways to entertain ourselves.

This place reminded me of the farmhouse, and for the first time in a while, the fear I’d constantly lived with returned, and I locked my attention on the only entrance as Della grew drowsy and crawled into the tent I’d haphazardly put up amongst discarded household junk.

She grumbled some made-up language of baby tongue and badly phrased things I’d taught her until I obeyed her commands to come to bed and grudgingly agreed to tell another bedtime story.

Somehow, she’d latched onto the stupid retellings and stared at me with dreamy eyes and utmost contentedness on her pretty face whenever I succumbed to her demands.

The first one I’d told out of desperation when she didn’t settle after something large and most likely hungry sniffed around our tent a few months ago.

I’d squatted on my haunches with two knives in two fists, ready to slice any creature that found its way into our sanctuary.

But whatever it was gave up after a while.

It didn’t mean Della calmed down, though.

She’d whimpered and sniffled, clutching that damn blue ribbon as if it was her only friend in the world.

That had hurt.

I’d grown used to her seeking comfort from me—of her crawling unwanted into my lap at the worst times or snuggling too close in the night.