The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(41)

I dropped my gaze as I used one of my four lighters—ever the resourceful—to start the fire I’d built.

Della had been subdued all evening from the moment I’d skidded to a stop beside her by the pond, hauled on my backpack, then took her hand and jogged until she couldn’t jog anymore, to now when all we could hear were crickets and insects, and our house had been replaced with a canopy of tree leaves.

I tried to hide my joy at being back where I belonged.

I tried not to smile or laugh in sheer pleasure at being away from cruel people and rotten societies.

I was happier than I’d been in a while, but Della was sad, and I didn’t want to make her feel worse by treating this as a celebration rather than a serious escape from potential separation.

She poked a leaf with her stick. “I thought you left me.”

“I promised I never would.”

“But you did leave me.”

“Only for forty-five minutes.”

She stuck her bottom lip out, pouting dramatically. “You still left me.”

I chuckled under my breath. “Okay, what can I do to make it up to you?”

She peered at me from beneath her brow. “I don’t know yet.”

“Well, while you’re coming up with a suitable punishment, how about I put up the tent so we can go to bed?”

She nodded as if permitting me to do that one task but nothing else.

Despite our close call today, she was still the same opinionated five-year-old I cherished.

Traipsing through the soft undergrowth to where I’d propped my backpack against a huge tree, I unzipped it and began the process of yanking out almost every possession to get to the stuffed tent beneath. I also took out comfier clothes for Della. She’d no longer need her school uniform. Some animal could use it as a nest come winter.

As I shook out our shelter that hadn’t been used since our last two-night camping trip a few months ago, I did my best to visualise where we were.

We’d cut over the farm, following well-known tracks and clusters of trees thanks to previous exploring during the summer heat.

Ideally, we should start to make our way south so we could avoid the cold for as long as possible. I had my compass. We could follow the autumn sun.

Wherever we ended up for winter would remain a mystery until we got there.

At least, we’d escaped this time. For hours, we hadn’t stopped moving deeper and deeper into the treeline, and I’d pushed Della until she’d stumbled in exhaustion.

We weren’t far enough away, but she was too heavy to carry for long distances, especially with an overstuffed backpack already killing my spine.

I gambled we’d be safe here for a night or two. No one had yelled or chased, and we’d successfully traded fields for forest.

We were just two unknown kids that adults would rather forget existed than file paperwork and begin a manhunt for.

We were alone.

And I wished I cared more about what we’d just left behind.

I wished I had some sort of homesickness for Della’s sake, so I could understand how traumatic this sudden disappearance would be to her.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t dwell for a second on running from a house and saying goodbye to TVs and mattresses and couches.

All I felt was utmost relief and freedom to be back in a simple world where life grew all around me, creatures were safe to do their own thing, flowers and weeds grew side by side, and not one of them tried to trap or change us.

Once the tent was secured and our sleeping bag inside, I pulled out a few eggs that I’d wrapped carefully in our clothing and fried them on a rock warmed in the fire.

Della curled next to me as we ate, leaning against tree roots and watching grey smoke from our orange fire mingle with the black sky.

The taste was a thousand times better than anything cooked on a range. Smoky and earthy and seasoned by nature itself.

It wasn’t just food that tasted different away from town.

The colours were brighter, bolder.

The night sounds deeper, wilder.

My heart beat softer, calmer.

Della nuzzled into my side as I leaned back and wrapped my arm around her. I couldn’t give her language or history or math.

But I could give her perfect simplicity.

And a bedtime story or two.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO





REN



2005




FOR THREE MONTHS, we lived like feral royalty.

Washing in rivers, playing in forests, eating whatever we could hunt and gather.

It was just as perfect as the first few months I’d run from Mclary’s—actually, it was better because Della had a personality now, voiced opinions regularly, and had an over inquisitive mind that learned fast and excelled at making fires, gutting game, and even cleaning a few rabbit skins to save for something useful later.

She said she remembered our life before Polcart Farm. She said she remembered the many nights we slept tentless and covered in stars and how much she’d hated roasted meat to begin with.

I didn’t disillusion her and argue. I doubted she remembered any of it. Her daily awe and fascination of every little thing said this was her very first time.

But sometimes, she would surprise me and quip about hiding in that guy’s shed with its piles of junk or hiding behind cardboard boxes in some family’s basement.