My fingers ache.
My lips crack.
I try to sleep, but the wind finds every gap in my layers.
My body feels hollow. My head swims. My breath clouds in the air and doesn’t clear. I think I’m getting sick. Or maybe I already am.
I start seeing things—blurry shapes at the edge of my vision. A shadow that looks like Cain is standing across the street. A foster mother is yelling at me.
None of it is real.
Even the hunger inside me isn’t.
Maybe I’m dead, I muse.
If I’m dead, then it’s nice. It means I’m safe.
But is heaven supposed to feel so lonely? This cold?
You’re in hell, Faith. For all your crimes, you’re in hell, and this is where you’ll remain.
I begin to cry softly.
8
THE WEIGHT OF WARMTH
FAITH
The cold settles deep into my bones. It feels permanent.
But only until you die, Faith.
I don’t know how long it is before I hear a cry followed by the crunch of hurried gravel.
“Faith?”
A familiar voice. Low, incredulous, panicked.
I open my eyes slowly. It takes effort.
Georgia crouches beside me, her coat barely pulled on over a Ripley’s shirt. Her cheeks are red from the wind, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Jesus, girl,” she whispers, reaching out. “You look half dead.”
I want to answer. I want to say her name. But my lips are cracked, my jaw locked from the cold. I can’t even nod.
She doesn’t hesitate. She loops one arm around my shoulders and hauls me up, grunting softly with the effort. “Come on now. Let’s get you warmed up.”
She half drags, half carries me to her car. It’s a beat-up Volvo that smells like cinnamon gum and French fries.
Georgia cranks the heat, turns on the seat warmers, and glances at me while she drives.
“Should’ve known,” she murmurs. “Should’ve guessed you’d be the one they turned into the town ghost.”
She takes me to her place, it’s a small house in a residential area with trees and children playing on the streets.
Her home is warm, cluttered, and smells like eucalyptus and lemon cleaner. There’s a crocheted Afghan on the couch and a framed photo of an older woman in a sundress on the end table. Her mama.
