“Alvie?”
I’ve been watching the cream swirl in my coffee. Now I look up, blinking. “What.”
“I asked if you’re thinking about anything,” Stanley says.
We’re sitting in a corner booth at Buster’s. Stanley was already there, waiting, when I arrived.
I trace the rim of my coffee cup with one finger and reply, “I was thinking about rabbits. About how logical they are.”
“Logical?”
“When a female rabbit is pregnant, but isn’t ready to give birth—if she’s under stress, or doesn’t have enough food, or if there’s something wrong with the embryo—she’ll reabsorb the young into her body.”
He frowns—uneasy, or maybe just puzzled.
A picture flashes through my head: the tranquil blue of the lake, and Mama sitting on the picnic blanket beside me, her bare, lightly freckled arms folded over her knees, her hair—the same red as mine—hanging around her face, her pale gray eyes fixed on a point in the far distance. Mama once told me that when she was a child, she was a lot like me. Very quiet, very shy. Maybe not to the same degree, but she was never the sort of woman who surrounded herself with friends. I suspect my father was the only man she ever slept with, and he didn’t stay long.
She was nineteen when she had me. Only two years older than I am now.
“With rabbits,” I continue, “no kits are born until the time is right.” My gaze drifts toward the window. Outside, a truck rumbles by, salting the roads. “Logical. Isn’t it.”
“I guess so.” His teeth catch on his lower lip, tugging. He always looks younger when he does that. “I mean, obviously it’s better if these things are planned. But lots of kids aren’t, and their parents still love them.”
Love.
A shudder runs through my body, and something inside me clamps tightly shut. “Love doesn’t magically fix a bad situation. It doesn’t pay the bills or put food on the table.”
“No. I guess not.” His voice sounds very small and faraway.
I should have kept my mouth shut—I can tell he’s uncomfortable—but I get tired of hearing people talk about love as if it’s some magical medicine. Love can make people irrational, cause them to behave stupidly and recklessly. Or worse. I don’t associate love with safety or warmth; I associate it with fear, with losing control. With drowning.
I finish my coffee, not tasting it. I didn’t order anything to eat; my appetite has shriveled up.
“Are you sure everything is okay?”
My shoulders stiffen. “I’m fine.”
He looks away, his lips pressed together in a pale line. Outside the window, the rain has turned to wet, messy snow. It drifts down in fat flakes, piling up against the glass.
He takes a deep breath. “Alvie, I—”
The door swings open. Three teenage boys stomp in, wearing coats and knitted caps with poof balls on top, and slouch into a booth on the other side of the restaurant. They’re talking loudly, voices overlapping and blending together. One of them, a blond with an assortment of piercings, pulls off his hat and props his feet on the table. Raucous laughter fills the restaurant.
Stanley glances at them, then turns back toward me. “Look . . . I’m not an idiot. I know something is wrong. I won’t push you if you don’t want to talk about it. But if I said or did something to upset you, I want to know. You—”
More laughter erupts from the table. One of the young men is holding two of the round, knitted hats over his chest like a pair of breasts while the other pretends to fondle them. Stanley grits his teeth.
“Ohhhh, baby!” one boy squawks in a piercing falsetto. The blond boy, meanwhile, is sucking the poof ball on the hat like a nipple.
“You suck dat titty, mista!” the other boy says in a phony accent. “You suck it good!”
More laughing.
“Hey,” the blond says, “you heard this one? So a hot dog and a dick are talking, and the hot dog says—”
“Excuse me,” Stanley calls, raising his voice and turning toward them, “could you keep it down? You’re in a restaurant.”
The young men fall silent, their gazes locking onto us. The blond narrows his eyes. He looks like Draco Malfoy from the Harry Potter movies, except for the silver studs in his ears and nose. “You want to say that again?” Draco says. “I didn’t quite catch it.”
“I said—”
I grip Stanley’s arm. “Let’s just go.” Right now, the last thing I want to deal with is a pack of half-grown jackals eager to assert their dominance.
Stanley tenses and opens his mouth as if to argue. Then he drops his gaze, throws some money on the table, and stands, gripping his cane. He hobbles stiffly toward the door, and I trail behind him, positioning myself between him and the teenagers.
“Smart move,” Draco calls. I ignore him.
Outside, in the parking lot, Stanley stumbles. I hook my arm around his, steadying him.
He tugs his arm free, gaze averted. “Where’s your car?”
“I walked. What about yours.”
“The lot was full.” He gestures toward the row of cars in front of the restaurant. “I had to park down the street. It’s another block or so.”
I glance at one of the empty spots nearby.
“Those are handicapped spots,” he says.
“But aren’t you—” I stop, and close my mouth.
“Other people need those more than I do.”
I look at him from the corner of my eye as we keep walking. His car stands at the end of the street, under a lone streetlight. It seems very far away.
His limp seems more pronounced than usual as our feet crunch in the thin, dirty layer of snow. The street is empty, and the silence is thick. Even my own heartbeat sounds oddly muted.
He stumbles again. I hook an arm through his. “Lean against me.”
He pulls back. “I’m fine.”
“Lean against me, or you’ll fall.”
He staggers away, topples against a streetlight, and clings to it for balance. “I’m fine!”
I stare.
He slides down the streetlight, to the pavement. His cane falls to his side. His breath hitches. “God damn it,” he whispers hoarsely, and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s breathing heavily, still clinging to the streetlight.
I take a small, hesitant step toward him. He doesn’t look up. Then a steady thump-thump breaks the silence. Footsteps. Behind us.
A tingle of electricity runs through my nerves, and instantly, my body and mind are on high alert. When I turn, I see three forms walking down the street toward us, their faces lost in shadow.
I grab Stanley’s hand and pull him to his feet.
He fumbles with his cane. “Alvie? What—”
I lean closer to him and whisper, “Keep moving.” We begin to walk. I slip my hand into the pocket of my coat, where my keys are, and I hold them so they’re sticking out between my fingers like brass knuckles.
Stanley glances over his shoulder, too. “They’re probably just walking back to their car.” But his tone is low and tense.
I don’t say anything, just grip the keys harder. In my head I make a map of a human body with all the soft places marked in red: the eyes, the throat, the kidneys, the groin. I look around to see if there’s anyone we can call out to for help, but the street is deserted.
The footsteps sound louder now. I look over my shoulder.
The guys behind us are walking faster, catching up. It’s them—the ones from the restaurant, still wearing those stupid poof-ball hats. But they move with the swift, steady gait of predators.
“Alvie, run,” Stanley whispers. He’s breathing very fast. “Don’t worry about me. Just get out of here.”
“Forget it.” My arm tightens on his. The young men behind us are ominously silent.
I grit my teeth.
One of them—the blond, the one I’ve been thinking of as Draco—breaks off from the group and circles around so that he’s standing in front of us. He’s smiling, showing a sliver of white teeth. The two others are still behind us, cutting off our path of retreat. They look so similar, they might as well be twins . . . and they’re both huge, with letterman jackets, thick necks, and thin brown hair peeking out from under their hats. Somehow, they didn’t seem nearly so big in the restaurant.
I press closer to Stanley’s side. My heartbeat fills my whole body, down to my fingertips and toes. I recognize these people. I’ve never seen them before tonight, but I recognize them all the same.
They’re the thousand enemies.