From The Entrance To The Exit

“Oven fries,” Emmett says. “You used to be able to get these really good garlic oven fries in town. At the bottom of the basket they were just burned completely black, like marshmallows. Incredible. And I miss streaming TV. The internet’s shit out here, but you could still get Netflix.”

All little stuff. None of the big stuff, nothing serious. The first stuff on the list doesn’t even get mentioned any more; they’re down to the fine-grained particulars of what they’ve left behind them.

“White wine. I miss white wine.” The thought of drinking around Stambler makes her uneasy, instead of taking the edge off. It’s like being over at a friend’s house when you’re a kid, and contending with a whole other set of house rules – not knowing where to sit, whether to take your shoes off, when to eat. This is the sleepover from hell, but the last days have eased into a strange state of familiarity. Like they’re not even prisoners, almost. More like guests, with free run of the couch and the old TV as long as they don’t put their shoes on the furniture.

It’s easier than ever to be comfortable around Emmett. At least they’re in the same boat, and he’s better company. The VCR is playing Beauty and the Beast: Enchanted Christmas, and Emmett’s back is against her legs with an ugly throw pillow for a buffer. He’s a lot better at sitting still than the last time she tried this.

“You know, I think I saw some on a shelf back there, back by all the knockoff soda. But it might have been white wine vinegar.”

“It’s just not the same.” The tips of her fingers skip over Emmett’s forehead; they’re still sticky from cutting and placing strips of duct tape, and balanced on her knee is the plastic packet of candy-colored rubber bands from one of those dollar-store bracelet makers. Braiding back Emmett’s hair takes her back to those same sleepovers – they didn’t happen often. His hair’s not that long, but it’s long enough for a thick chunky braid back over one ear that makes him look like a post-apocalyptic viking.

“There’s still Rite-Aid. You can get a $4 bottle of champagne on a Friday night at Rite-Aid. You don’t even need a reason.” Emmett lifts his busted arm in a good-natured shrug, a non-verbal acknowledgement of their current situation. God knows what’s still out there, or how they’re going to get to it. “Or hey, free champagne. We can clear the place out.”

It’s good to keep her hands busy, and it’s one activity Howard can’t inject himself in. Howard’s resting in the other room, but he’s not asleep. For now at least the living room is theirs. Neither of them has dared to talk about what comes next. They’re listing what’s worth fighting for.

“I’d kill somebody for some fresh produce. I used to be a vegan.” Back in college, when that was one more thing she could wrangle to keep her head together. If the two of them can find the leeway, they’d have everything they need to start gardening down here. Everything but permission. Hopefully they’ll be topside before that starts to matter.

“Hey, that’s crazy, me too. I just liked meat too much.”

“Bet you can run pretty fast, powered by meat.” There’s a USDA slogan like that, probably, Fueled By Meat; it’s no Got Milk?, but it has possibilities. Michelle’s hair is falling forward in her eyes, clustered in a bunch of rainbow-color rubber bands, and her brow is faintly creased with concentration. “There, you’re done.”

“Or kale! Kale’s good too. I don’t want to steal your thunder.” Emmett straightens out his shoulders and gives her handiwork on the right side of his head a quick pat. “Holy shit, is that pipe organ played by Dr. Frank N Furter?”