I went into the kitchen and watched as he blew on the fire, getting the water to a boil, and suddenly my heart was overwhelmed by a feeling of great love for him. Maybe it had always been there, but I hadn't let myself feel it. He was such a good kid, considering he'd had no parents, no education, no... love, really, except from the gang of kids he lived with, who had no more capability of loving him, as he had of loving them. I was probably the only person in his life who could actually love him, but I had closed myself off to him.

I had met Michael on the day of my greatest find—a first edition Alice in Wonderland. He became my goodluck boy! I'd been scouting in the rotting dump of an apartment building in South Granville, what used to be a fairly upscale end of town. I don't know when he began following me—my hearing isn't what it used to be—but at a certain point I realized I had a shadow of sorts. He'd followed me around from room to room, apartment to apartment, probably because he was curious about the things I was looking at. Things he didn't know the purpose of, like books and telephones and old pieces of technology.

I'd tried to scare him off, but I was too old to chase him and he didn't respond to my threats, except to keep a slightly greater distance. And then I'd hit the jackpot—behind the dusty glass of an intact display case, I had found her—my Alice—in all her glory. In my excitement I had begun talking to myself and I guess Michael had just assumed I was talking to him. He came close to inspect what I had in my hands. His big brown eyes overcame my own entrenched xenophobia—maybe because he seemed more like a pet dog in that moment, excited by my excitement, but completely unable to comprehend what I was excited about. In some ways, Michael was like my pet. He lived with a pack of wild children somewhere near the Edge, orphans of the city.

Over the years, Michael had become my only contact to the world outside—something that I was rarely thankful for. It was because of him that I still had food and wood, and he always fixed things around my apartment, or scrounged for replacements for the things he couldn't fix. He had installed the reservoir on the roof to collect rainwater, after hauling the parts for it from god knows where. And when I had hurt myself scavenging in an apartment building over on Oak Street, he'd begun to bring me books, which had brought with it the end for my need to go outside. After that, even though I'd healed, he kept bringing me books, and I hadn't left my apartment since.

I walked up behind him and put my hand on his back. He turned and looked at me, startled by this unfamiliar gesture. I smiled. He looked uncertain, but smiled a bit, his brow furrowing as well, turning his smile into a confused grimace. I could see the cogs whirring, and had to laugh a bit.

I fixed him some tea and he sat there, looking thoughtfully into his cup. I could tell he had something important to say. I leaned back in my chair and picked up the spoon beside my tea cup, put in a very small amount of honey from a jar, and stirred it into my tea, stirring and waiting. Metal spoon clinked softly against glass; one of a very few sounds that survived from before. A sound I'd been hearing since my Great Grandma Alice waited for me to find my words at her table when I was Michael's age.

He looked at my tea, then licked his lips and looked up at me.

Here it comes, I thought.

But nothing came. He was too chicken-shit, he just looked back down into his tea.

"Well, spill the beans, kid. What is it you need to say?" I took my spoon and threw it into the sink.

He muttered something into his cup.

"What was that? I can't hear you when you mutter like that." He knew I needed to read his lips and see his facial expression to really catch on, my ears had begun to fail me.

He suddenly looked up and blurted, "Why don't you ever go outside?"

I swear, it took me aback—it wasn't like Michael to pry. He was trusted in that way. We didn't have these kinds of conversations. Conversations about personal things.

I didn't know what to say. The truth is, I don't even know why I don't go outside. It happened slowly.

I tried to ignore him, but when I looked back at him, he was still staring at me, waiting for an answer. Finally, I said, "There's nothing to go outside for! It's horrible out there, with all you hooligans roaming the streets, causing mischief."

I got up to put my dish in the sink, and dropped it in with a rattle, hoping to close off the conversation. Like the dish, I was a bit rattled myself. I had this sinking feeling in my stomach, and then I remembered the dream, or rather, I remembered the emotions of the dream: confusion, fear. 

I pushed those emotions away and shuffled out of the kitchen, ignoring Michael and single-mindedly planning to go back to bed. But then I heard him from behind me. "What happened Shalon? Why don't you ever go outside—what happened to you?"

I stopped.

What happened to me? What happened to me? Jesus Christ. What hadn't happened? I didn't turn around, I kept shuffling. My shin hurt from falling down and I felt angry at my body, at my books, and at Michael. I let out a flood of anger. "First the bloody dream, then the goddamn books tripping me up, now my bloody leg is killing me, and now this—now you choose today to give me the third degree!"

I hobbled down the hall and went into the washroom and slammed the door behind me. The little shit, I thought to myself.

I turned on the faucet to wash my face, but only because it was the next logical thing to do. God, what I wouldn't have given for a nice hot bath.

I thought about Michael... "Nice try," I said out loud. Like I'm going to divulge myself to a child.

I looked around my bathroom, which was beyond grimy. I had been cheap with water and not cleaned it in years. I was again overcome with a sense of self-loathing. I looked in the mirror but it was so caked with soot and grime that I couldn't see much. I picked up a rag that I used for washing myself and took some water from the bucket in the sink and rubbed at it.

The clean mirror revealed a pitiful sight — a bitter and very unhappy old woman. I examined my face — following wrinkles like a roadmap — and watched as my watery eyes searched for something recognisable. It had been many years since I had looked at myself — you'd be surprised at how easy it was to avoid. Without the proper care of janitors, squeegees and endless fresh water, the millions of reflective surfaces of the city had been consumed by dust within months.

My eyes traversed the landscape of my skin, the crevices and folds that my face had become. I couldn't help but notice that I had become something I had never wanted to be. Who is this person? I saw someone there that I recognised only slightly — she was there in the eyes. I saw the deep, brown eyes of someone I used to know. I thought I knew her, before I lost everything. She had been so close to me that I thought she was me. But this — this ugly face looking at me — this couldn't be me. It was someone else.

I looked outside as the city woke up, and the sun, still close to the horizon, shot beams of orange light through my dust-covered windows. It reminded me that, if I wanted, today could be just another day, like all the others before it. Except for the dream. If I knew anything at all about those dreams, then I knew that that dream had changed everything. I felt a prick of fear in my stomach.

I looked again at my face, which felt heavy and unreal, like something I'd borrowed. I wanted to tear it off, shed the skin of this body. I looked down at my claw of a hand, gripping the side of the old porcelain sink. Outside, the sky was turning lighter and lighter shades of blue and the foul smoke of burning scrap lumber wafted into the bathroom from where Michael was fixing tea. 

It could not be. I decided it, right then and there. Today everything would change. It had to change.

I turned on the faucet and the slimy water from the makeshift reservoir on the roof poured into my bucket, which I took as a good sign. Thank god there's water today.

If today was the day that things were going to change, then I wanted to be clean. I looked at the tub, which had turned into a storage container, and remembered the warm showers of my younger years. What I wouldn't give for a five minute warm shower — with soap and shampoo. We'd been so spoiled back then and never even for a moment known or appreciated it.

Settling for a partial spongebath, I got to work, while thinking about what I would do. After washing my face and neck, I rung out the filthy washcloth and hung it over the rack, and then I opened the window and threw my waste water outside. Another deep breath. It was a first step.