Dusk fell heavy over the city, blanketing the sky in an oppressive dark. At the hour, the luminous skyscrapers had slowly begun to flicker out, and speakers blared through the emptying streets.
Warning, said the electric tinged voice. The nine-o’clock curfew has now begun. Return to your homes immediately. Warning. All violators will be detained.
Ivy watched as the evening workers and night dwellers shuffled down the sidewalks, heads bowed against the omniscient glow of the streetlights that’d borne witness to their savage furies.
Warning, the voice began again.
Ivy lifted a cigarette to her lips, inhaled, let the smoke sit and coil through her lungs like a breath of life before she blew it through the crack of her propped window. Only the stub of the cigarette remained, its embers hot against her fingers. But it was good for a few more puffs at least, and god did she need it.
The evening train rumbled between the skyscrapers, sleek and plain. Tragic.
The train Vero had painted had launched through the city at dawn while the masses flocked to their office buildings and corporate cults. She’d watched the train pass from ground level, had hollered victoriously with the encroaching sun. Vero’s art had struck a stunning contrast to the sterile city, loud in its proclamation.
But in a flash, it had disappeared; vanished like a dream, like Vero.
Grief burned in her eyes and sank its teeth into her chest. It had all gone to hell since then.
A faint sound rapped at Ivy’s door. She stiffened, stomach sinking. She closed the window and smothered the cigarette. The knock came harder, fast and rhythmic—like gunfire. She grabbed a knife on her way to the door. They would not take her without a fight.
Through the spy hole, however, there were no soldiers as she’d feared. Rather, she found the close cropped head of a boy. Isaiah.
Ivy dropped the knife and tore open the door. Before he could even mutter a word, she had the boy wrapped in a tight embrace.
“Oh,” said Isaiah, melting slowly into her hold. They stayed there for a moment, banishing all else with the comforts of this hug. But at last, Isaiah pulled away, eyes puffed red with unshed tears. He sniffled, muttered an awkward, “Hello.”
Ivy set her hands on his shoulders, not yet ready to release him in case he should vanish too. “They cut your hair,” she said. His face was gaunt, and his skin was smudged with dirt. He had a half-empty duffle slung around his shoulder.
“Do you hate it?” he asked, glancing bashfully at his feet.
“No,” said Ivy. “It suits you.” With his curls, he’d looked too much like Vero. She took the bag from the boy. “Did you run?” she asked. He was meant to be at an orphanage in the lower city.
Isaiah nodded, and a door slammed farther down the hall. He startled, looking fleetingly over his shoulder. “Please—” he said. “ Please don’t let them take me back.”
Ivy couldn’t muster any words of assurance. She couldn’t bear the weight of another uncertain promise. “Get cleaned up,” she said instead. “I’ll make us some food.”
