Page 141 of Death is Familiar

“You shouldn’t hide it’s beaut⁠—”

I levelled her with a glare.

“Okay, fine. But you don’t let me get stuck in there, okay?”

The door beneath the chute had a rusted padlock. I wrapped my hand in the extra fabric of my hospital gown and gave the handle a rough yank. The lock clanked and fell to the ground, broken. “Deal.”

†

Three rummaged around in the bin for a while, and came out with just about the ugliest outfit I could imagine.

Of course, she had the biggest grin on her face.

“There’s so much color!” she said as she passed me a pile of clothes that appeared to consist entirely of denim. “And look, my sweater has a funky boat!”

Three was wearing a top that had once been a souvenir from Venice, hot pink velour track pants, and the thickest pair of slide sandals I’d ever seen in my life.

“What? Why are you smiling like that?” Three looked down at her outfit. “Am I not fashionable?”

“It’s very you,” I replied as I uncrumpled the pile of clothes meant for me.

I had to do everything in my power not to laugh. Out loud.

Apparently, she thought what I needed was a pair of paint-splattered overalls, a faded orange shirt with yellow sleeves, embroidered with a strange daisy that told me to “Have a nice day, bae.” Whatever that meant. And for shoes, a pair of orange rubber clogs.

My ribs contracted. Fluttered. Air choked my throat. Involuntarily, I… snorted.

And now, I was full on laughing. Whoops.

“Did I do something wrong?” She was genuinely concerned.

“No, no, I’m... I’m laughing because it’s perfect.” I thought speaking would slow down my laughter, but it only gained momentum. “I love it.”

To be honest, it all fit very well too. My stomach was barely noticeable, and even then, that was only if I really looked.

“You did a great job, really.” Placing a hand on her shoulder, I tilted my head to bathe in the glow of the streetlight overhead. “Thank you.”

†

With a somewhat clean outfit, and finger brushed hair, I managed to sneak us both into the restroom of the nearest fast-food restaurant. Without removing any clothes, we washed what we could in the sink, appearing halfway presentable.

I just hoped it was enough to convince someone to let me use their phone.

If the building had an accessible landline, it was my best bet. People were reluctant to give out their cellphones most days, and the odds were not in my favor if I looked like I might be the type of person to scurry away with it. Which I most definitely did.

Of course, my other option was pickpocketing, but my nerves and muscles were shot, my head was still pounding, and I was fairly certain the floor was moving.

Landline first, then begging.

With Three under strict orders to stay in the restroom until I retrieved her, I approached the teenager at the register. My stomach gurgling at the scent of fried food, smoke, and pickles, I solidified my story.

It was quick and simple: I went for a hike, fell into a swamp, and lost my phone. Losing my phone meant losing my map, and now I needed to call someone to pick me up.

It worked, with not a single follow-up question asked.

The reluctant teen watched as I pressed the chunky receiver to my cheek—the short-coiled wire tethering me directly in front of the register—and they kept their attentions on me as I listened to the endless ringing on the other end.

Pick up, pick up.