“I like the tabs. It’s a nice touch.” Kaleb’s smile is a greeting that’s hard to ignore. By the third day, it draws my automatic grin. By the fourth, it invigorates the path to his office. Today he looks tired. Or maybe my anticipation judges too harshly.
“Thank you. They’re color-coordinated.”
“I noticed that. Orange for reports, green for correspondence, blue for inventories. Then sub-categorized with a number system.” He smirks at my confusion. He’s supposed to be disorganized, and yet I don’t think I’ve done a single thing to this office that he hasn’t noticed.
“I’ve been wondering about something. Shouldn’t most of these documents be in your computer system?”
“They are, but our network is frequently attacked. We keep paper backups in case we lose everything. It’s happened before.”
I approach with a stack of documents. “What are these handwritten codes? I’ve seen similar ones on almost everything.”
His gaze shifts before a shrug. “I like to tag them with my own system.”
I stare at the scrawl. He numbers everything with a complex code he developed, then tosses them on a pile to be buried? He cuts off more of my confusion by engaging his screen, and I concentrate on his desk instead. The metal table overflows with paper and folders, and yet, no food wrappers or empty coffee cups. Writing utensils are coiled in a holder, office supplies tucked in a strict line along the back edge of the desk. There are no personal artifacts. I’ve even watched him wipe his screen with a cloth each night as we prepare to leave. Nothing about his desk makes sense.
I have a hundred questions, but he hasn’t invited any that don’t include file folders. I pull one from the stack.
“This entire clump was July bathroom inventories.”
Green embers stall my breath. Shoot straight to my bloodstream. “Yeah?”
I nod because I have a point. “The thing is, they were all together when I got to them. I didn’t sort these.”
His attention is less amused this time. “I guess you saved some time.”
“Isn’t that strange?”
“Maybe I was bored one day and started sorting them.”
“Maybe you weren’t always this disorganized.”
Our eyes lock again, and I regret my boldness. I’ve come to crave his smile.
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. It was a lie then, but not now. “I’m sorry. I’ll get back to work.”
I feel the blaze of his stare as I return to my folders. It’s the strangest thing, this mix of warmth and distance. Like there’s an embrace he’s locked away. Like he knows he can’t be the person he is.
“Do you have any family?” I ask. The question should have been an improvement over the awkward silence. And yet…
“No.”
“None?” I clench my eyes shut. “I mean, sorry. I lost my father when I was younger.”
“That must have been hard.”
There’s the hug again, begging for release before he tucks it behind chiseled resolve.
“It was hard, but we learned to make the best of it. Do you know how many ways you can make toast?”
A hint of light escapes him this time. It’s breathtaking. “Hmm… I don’t think so. I’m listening.”
I return his smile. “Okay, well breakfast toast is jam or cinnamon sugar when you can get cinnamon. Lunch toast is cheese, and dinner toast is eggs. For variety you can change the cheese and style of eggs.”
“What about tomatoes?”
“What about them?”
“Just wondering if they go on lunch toast or dinner toast.”
“Wow, I don’t know.” I tap my chin. “Big tomato fan, huh?”
“My mother used to grow them.”
I expect armor to guard this revelation, but instead I get another glimpse of the person I’m dying to know.
“They’re not easy to grow in 12,” I say.
“I’d imagine not. They’re not easy to grow in most regions.”
“My mom and I tried to grow mint in our apartment window once.”
“Yeah? How did that go?”
“Good, until we found out it was catnip.”
God, his laugh stops time. “Do I want to know how you discovered that?”
“Tea. Seriously awful tea.”
He’s still shaking his head when he says, “We should get to work.”
It’s sweet that he thinks I could focus on filing right now. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Your family. What happened to them?”
“Dead.”
“Oh.”
“We should work,” he repeats gently.
“Mom. Mom!” I crush the letter in my hand and race toward the kitchen. My excitement fades. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” she says through a sad smile. “What’s that you have?”
“An approval notice. My request went through.”
Her cheeks lift slightly. “You’ll be transferred to an office tech track?”
“I start training next week!”
“That’s great. I’m so happy for you.”
“For us. I’ll earn twice as much. We won’t have to worry all the time anymore.”
Her relief is evident in the pressure of her embrace. “You’re going to make a great office tech.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Your dinner is on the table.”
I glance over to find one plate. One slice of bread shielded by one fried egg.
“You’re not eating?”
“I ate at the school today.”
“Yeah, but that’s just lunch.”
“Andie, eat your dinner.”
My stomach cramps in hunger. In guilt because I’ll consume the last bread, the last egg, while my mother goes hungry. I’ve learned not to argue.
“Soon we’ll be able to eat together again,” I say, and she cups my face.
“Very soon. And I promise it will be something besides toast.”
“Shit.”
His hostility for his screen draws my attention.
“You okay?” I ask.
“What? Oh. Yeah.” A stiff smile accompanies a swipe at his display where I assume he’s hiding evidence I can’t see.
“Bad news?”
“Expected news.”
“Anything I’ll have to file?”
His gaze flicks to mine with a brief taunt. “Maybe.”
“Yellow or green folder?”
“Red.”
I search for amusement but the light is gone. Red. Targeted reprimands.
I’ve learned that there’s a way to watch Kaleb without his knowledge. It involves leaning against the base of the couch with a folder, legs crossed, totally casual in their support of my back. From there, I can zero in on his side of the room with barely a deviation from the assigned path to my page. Right now they I him absently rubbing a chin that needs to be shaved. Well, his superiors would think so. I wouldn’t change a thing about him in this moment. His eyes, so intense as they process whatever bombshell pulled a reaction through his typical reserve, suck me deep into his problem. I wonder about “shit” reprimands. Expected ones too, which means this is another rule he willingly broke. It’s strange: Kaleb the saint, Kaleb the lawbreaker. It doesn’t fit with the categories of men I’ve encountered in my life. I’ve seen good. I’ve seen strong. I’ve seen resilient and kind. Rebellious, enigmatic, brave, mesmerizing, and intelligent, but never in the same body. Never in such a brief window of acquaintance. Never with a smile that thins the air.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask, maybe so those eyes find me again.
They do, and sure enough, oxygen rushes from the room.
He doesn’t lie to me this time. Instead, his gaze lingers, searches me. “We live in a complicated world, Andie. Hostile and unyielding.”
I nod, waiting for the rest. Then realize that was the rest.
I discovered my bumpy ceiling on my first night here. It’s not stucco or concrete, but some other lumpy material that makes awesome patterns for your brain to study while it takes off each night. Tonight’s scene is a barren dessert. Specks of black try to convince me I’m watching lone wanderers fight their way across the sand, and I’m sad for them. If only they had my view. They’d know how close they are to each other. Maybe they’d come together and survive their harsh journey, but they don’t have the luxury of perspective. No, each of those stubborn specks will drown in the ocean of lumps, not knowing an identical corpse rests two hills over. I close my eyes and let my mind wander.
There’s no knock, just the intrusive crash of a neighbor through our apartment door. Revis McDonough, eyes bulging, face contorted in fury. My thirteen-year-old brain recognizes the signs of rage, even senses the coming threat to our safe monotony. Revis has always been vocal about his sympathy for the Free Forces, but this passion is different.
Mom intercepts him in our living room, dish towel in hand so he knows he’s interrupting.
“Can you believe this? Now they’re dictating our jobs too!”
“Good to see you, Revis. You were affected by the new employment directives?”
“Affected? Fucking violated! I was an engineer. Now I’m supposed to drive a fucking bus?”
Mom sends me to the kitchen with a look, and I duck out of sight for her sake. But Revis is too animated to ignore.
“I can understand your frustration—”
“Oh, really? Did they transfer you too?” Mom never appreciates my sarcasm; I can’t imagine she’s a fan of his.
“No. I’m still a teacher. I’m older than you are, Revis. I was well above the age threshold.”
“Exactly! How is it fair that my life gets shredded just because of my birth year?”
“Shredded? They’re doing this to make sure every role is filled and every family has a chance to survive. Do you know how many people are starving in 12 since the rebels took Region 10 and cut off supplies? With the new structure, people will be able to eat.”
“That’s bullshit!”
“No, you’re being selfish.”
“And you’re being weak! You’re complacent, Marta. You’re the reason they’re walking all over us.”
“I think you should go.”
“Gladly. I came to say goodbye. I’m heading to Region 10 where I can make a difference.” The scalp through his thinning hair is blotched with pink as he stomps toward the door.
“You’re joining the Free Forces?”
“Those government bastards need to be held accountable for their tyranny.”
“‘Those bastards’ are your friends and family, Revis. Don’t you see how wrong it is that we’re fighting each other? Over what?”
“Oppression!”
“By whose definition? You know when I felt ‘oppressed’? When I had to look my daughter in the eye and explain there’d be no food that day. I’m sorry you don’t want to drive a bus, but I’m not sorry my daughter isn’t starving anymore.”
“Whatever,” he snaps, and pride swells through my chest. I love watching the intimidating Revis McDonough slink away in defeat.
“You can come out now, Andie.” Her stern expression fades into concern at my timid approach. “You know this war is complicated, right? It’s much easier to see black and white, but it’s rarely the truth.”
I nod and examine the vacant doorway like it still contains the ranting silhouette of our neighbor.
“Which side are we on?” I ask.
She slips her arm around my waist and studies the same ghost. “Hopefully neither.”
Face shielded by his screen, Kaleb barely acknowledges me the following morning. His brief hello does nothing to soothe my imagination, which spent our time apart manufacturing disturbing scenarios. Wondering how his complicated, hostile, and unyielding world compares to mine. It’s hard to care about someone you don’t know. Someone who seems intent on making sure you never do.
“I made friends yesterday,” I say, hoping to trigger a conversation I actually want to have. His head tilts away when I take my place by the filing cabinets, and I don’t like that I still haven’t seen his eyes.
“Ethan and the gang from Floor 3?”
My stare intensifies. “How did you know?”
“I see you sitting with them at meals.”
“Wait, you’re at our meals? I’ve never seen you.”
“Were you looking for me, Sorenson?”
At least he can’t see the burn in my cheeks. “No. I just—”
“I stop in when I can to make sure everything is running smoothly.”
“Right. Supervisor and all that.”
His smile slips toward me, and I freeze.
“Kaleb…” It comes out as a whisper as he reverts to his screen.
“Don’t, Andie.” The hand is back, blocking my view of the fresh welt around his eye. “If you’re interested in Ethan, watch out for Carla. They’ve been a unit for a while.”
I don’t have any words about Carla. Ethan. Fucking lunchtime drama. “What happened to your face?”
He shrugs, and I push into his line of sight. No hiding now. Even so, his gaze remains fixed on the monitor. His collar rests high, jacket on and secured despite the stuffiness of the small room. “A fight. No big deal.”
His clenched fists don’t support that theory, and the red folder of reprimands screams at me from somewhere in the office.
“Was this related to that hearing?”
Green embers shoot to me, burning with answers I won’t get. “I said it was a fight.”
“But—”
“No. Just—” He holds up his hand, preventing any more unearned protests.
I swallow them, but my question doesn’t go away in the silence that follows, his reaction. It’s too painful. “How long have you been a building supervisor?”
“A few months.”
“Why a desk when there’s so much fighting going on?”
“It’s where I was assigned.”
“That’s not a real answer.”
He finds me staring, still tracing the purple and red streaks scaling his face. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Because I like facts.”
“I’m learning that.” He returns my scrutiny, lips rocking into a curl. “Come here.”
I approach slowly and release my breath when his eyes tinge with humor. “Are you afraid of me, Sorenson?”
“What?”
“You look ready to pass out. You just don’t like me, is that it?”
“No!” Crap. I feel the force of my reaction in my face again.
He hands me a folder. “Here. Days’ worth of facts for you.”
I skim the first page. “Protocols?”
“For the operation and maintenance of Refugee Residential Buildings. If you’re going to be my assistant, you need to know what I know.”
I’d laugh if I weren’t so excited. “Thank you. I…”
His expression melts in amusement. “Well. First time I was ever thanked for a four-hundred-page encyclopedia of rules.”
I grin. “Well, this is the first time you’ve had Andie Sorenson as an assistant.”