He looked.
The apartment had stopped smelling like death weeks ago. Now it just smelled like old tea, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of the preserves Leyley had been hoarding under her bed.
Leyley was quiet for a long time. Then she turned in his arms, faced him in the near-dark. Her breath smelled like canned peaches.
"If we go out there," she said, "and it's just more of the same—more people who want to put us in boxes—promise me something." the coffin of andy and leyley
Behind them, the apartment sat hollow and patient, waiting for new ghosts.
"Promise you'll help me dig."
He didn't ask what she meant. He didn't have to. He looked
He wanted to believe her. He always wanted to believe her.
Leyley set the knife down. For once, she didn't have a clever, cutting remark. She just took his hand and pressed it flat against her own chest, over her heart. It was beating too fast.
"We could go out," Andy whispered into her hair. "Tomorrow. Find another building. Another family." Leyley was quiet for a long time
"I saw Mom today," he said quietly.
"You're staring again," Leyley mumbled, not opening her eyes.
"Because we're running out of food. Because the smell from the chute is starting to drift back up." He hesitated. "Because I had the dream again."
Andy didn't move. "We can't stay here."
