FERN

Tex stared at me as I inhaled the food, but I was too busy basking in the glory of salt, trans fats, and carbs to care. It had flavor. Sure, it wasn't exactly a porterhouse, but I could get steak. On the right day, I could down big game and be eating red meat for months. Today had not been that day, but today was better. I couldn't get this, and the taste made me question whether or not I was alive. It made more sense that I was dead than my current reality. I scraped the inside of the pot with my spoon, getting every last ounce of sauce.

When I finally sat it down, Tex stretched fisted hands toward me. "Pick one."

I lifted a brow and hesitated then pointed at his right. 

He opened it to reveal a snack size candy bar, and nostalgia stole my breath. Chocolate. Peanuts. Halloween. Sitting with John on the roof, the air cool against my cheeks, his face still smeared with devilish paint. Our buckets sat between our knees and candy wrappers scattered across the shingles. The moon high and full. Corn fields stretching toward the tree line, nearly bare as harvest season drew to a close. Suddenly, his offerings weren't those from outside but those from before. As if he'd reached into the past and brought a bit into this form of my existence.

As much as I wanted to take it, it didn't feel right. He couldn't do that. John wasn't here. He wasn't twelve years old and alive. Mama wasn't somewhere close, trying to find us and make us pace ourselves. Daddy wasn't downstairs at the door, passing out candy to the kids from the farm down the road.

I shook my head, both to decline his offer and remove the memories. "No, thank you. I'm full." That was a lie. I'd never be full, but if just the sight of a candy bar conjured that much of before, I didn't want to test what a taste would do.

His brow furrowed, lip quirked, and with a shrug of his good shoulder, he shoved it into his jean pocket. "How long have you been on your own?" he asked as he readjusted his jeans and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

It was really hard to talk to him. Not because he was intimidating, though he should have been. The man was a monster, but that wasn't it. For some reason, I felt no fear. Even in the woods, when I'd first seen him, I hadn't had the the urge to run. All I'd considered was that he was bleeding out around my arrow, and I didn't want him to die because of it. No. That wasn't it. It was the fact that he still hadn't gotten a new shirt, and the sight of him, stretched back, hard lines and ink and scars, exposed, did funny things to my stomach.

The closest I'd come to a boy was holding hands with Jimmy Johnson on the walk home from Sunday school. This was no boy. Jimmy Johnson felt like a puppy in comparison, and I realized—with some reluctance—that that made Tex a wolf. "A few years," I answered, my throat a little raw. I blamed it on the amount of words it'd been forced to propel after being left unused for so long, but I wasn't sure that was all it was.

He whistled, long and low. "All of them in the woods? By yourself?"

I nodded and wished I had something to work on. If I could just have something to do while we spoke, some wood to cut or a blade to sharpen, then I wouldn't have to awkwardly find places to fix my eyes. As it was, they kept straying back to his chest, his collar bones, and the dip at the base of his throat. I focused on my fingers. "Yeah."

"You hunt everything you eat?"

He seemed oblivious to my discomfort, and I was grateful. The last thing I needed was him knowing the thoughts running through my head. What was wrong with me? I was acting like a lovesick girl and that was something I'd never been, not even before. I wasn't a girl anymore. Not at twenty, and especially not after everything that'd happened. I didn't feel like a girl when I was alone, surviving. Yet, sitting across from him, I did. An adolescent, dumb girl. I should have been thinking about why he looked the way he did. I should have been considering the bear, and all that change could mean for my food supply.

Irritation bloomed in my chest. I needed to stop it. This was stupid. I met his gaze, determined to get over whatever idiocy has pervaded my brain. "I do. How about y'all? Do your men hunt? Do all the animals talk or just some? I'm worried. I don't think I can hunt an animal intelligent enough to beg for mercy."

"You know, I'm disappointed in the lack of hunters in my group." He rubbed his jaw, and the scrub of his palm against stubble was audible. "Any of them can shoot whatever target I point to, but finding a deer and being quiet enough to not spook it off has proven too difficult."

"And the animals?" I repeated, coveting that answer above all others. What if the chemicals spread out? Was it contagious? If an animal ate a mutated animal, would that animal then become mutated? I imagined a world where all the animals spoke. I'd never be able to live off foraging alone. Daddy said many ancient tribes used natural groves, cultivated over generations wherever the plants had picked to grow. As settlers arrived, implementing new farming techniques, the groves disappeared beneath the progress. It would take an eternity and more energy than I had to try and replicate it for myself, and I'd starve long before the first harvest.

"We have to travel out a ways, but it's pretty contained to this general area. We stopped making the effort a while back. The men never got anything, and it was a hike to even try."

"But they fish?" They'd been eating fish. My chest eased a fraction. "Fish are better than red meat, anyway. Plenty of fat. I got a huge buck last fall and still almost starved in the winter. You need more than just protein."

"Is that right?" He sat up and leaned forward. "I've got a man named Croc that gets us how ever many fish we need. But there's a lot of people here, and I'm hoping to have more join us soon. Scavenging gets us a bit," he motioned to the empty can beside us, "but our supply runs are coming up shorter as time goes on." He reminded me of a fox, perceptive, wheedling. "How do you hunt?" A slow smile softened his features. "Will you show me?"

It's our job as good people to help, Daddy's voice echoed. Those words. His words.

Was it the same? I wasn't hiding them. I wasn't bringing them with me. I wasn't putting myself in any position I wasn't already in. What difference did it make if I stuck around a bit, ate some more of what they offered, enjoyed the presence of other humans, then went about my way?

"Don't count on me sticking around," I said. "I don't do that. But I'll hang out for a while and show you what I can."

He leaned back in his chair and fell quiet. The smile faded. The look returned. "I'm much obliged," he said, tone low and slow. He didn't sound obliged. He sounded like he wanted to haggle. "In the meantime, I can offer you a bit more. Some clothes. A bath with soap. I've got toothbrushes and tooth paste." He stood and dusted his palms on his jeans then extended a hand down to help me up. "Follow me. I'll have one of the women get you set up."

His hand swallowed mine, and he didn't let go when we stood. His calluses almost made mine seem soft. I stared at the joining, the connection, the feeling of human skin against mine. I'd taken it for granted. When Daddy taught me about survival, what was needed, what was necessary, we never talked about social needs. He probably never thought I'd be alone. He expected to be with me, or at the very least, that I would be with John.

It was a drop of water in a vast desert. I absorbed the contact, relished the feel of each line in his palm, the warmth of his life seeping in to mingle with mine, and I was calm. I could breathe, and I knew I was alive because his presence solidified mine.

Tex let go and extended the same hand forward. "Julia, this is," he paused. "I never asked your name."

I smiled at the woman. "I'm Fern."

"Fern," Tex said as if testing the word on his tongue.

My cheeks warmed again, and I focused on the woman, her tight blonde curls and dark grey roots. She wore leopard print spandex and a neon pink tank top. Lime green nails and bright purple eye shadow. Her lipstick–the same shade as her shirt–spilled out of the lines in a failed attempt at faux plumpness.

"Nice to meet you," she said, barely glancing at me before centering all of her focus on Tex's shoulder. "What in the hell happened to your arm?" She cupped his elbow and peered at the poultice.

Tex waved her off. "It's fine. Just a scratch that Fern here already fixed up. I'm just dropping her off. Would you mind setting her up with a bath and some new duds? I've got to get back to Maurice and prod his big ass awake."

Julia chewed her lip, seeming to debate whether or not to let him leave, then finally gave in and focused on me. "Well, I guess since he doesn't want to be mothered I'll just settle for you." She gripped my hand and lifted it, looking me over like a tough stain in the carpet. "Lord, child. You're a mess. C'mon. This is gonna take a while."