Archive of Our Own ^beta

They’re sitting in Kenny’s hideout, the one near the Stohess stairs around the corner from the room where he was born, when Kenny downs his beer bottle, squints down the barrel of his rifle – Maria, he calls her – and aims the nuzzle at Levi.

“What d’you think?” He asks him. “She lookin’ perfect, or what?”

Levi shrugs his shoulder, glumly counts out his bottle-caps. He’s all about bottle-caps, this month. Last month it was those little screw-bolts that you sometimes find littering the ground, that give you a nasty infection if you step on them with your bare foot, but those are hard to come by, and the bottle caps are reliable. “She’s alright, I guess,” he mutters. He’s lost count. He’s gonna have to start again, which irritates him something fierce, but Kenny never cares about all that.

Kenny aims, but Levi knows he’s not gonna shoot him. He might’ve thought that, a year ago, two. Kenny’s all bark no bite, though. At least, not usually, and not when he’s in this kinda mood, half-boozed up and laughing to himself, or whatever damn voices he hears in that screwy head of his.

Kenny frowns at him. “When’s your birthday, anyway?”

Levi wrinkles his nose, ‘cause it’s a dumb question, and ‘cause he doesn’t know. It never came up ‘til now. “How the fuck should I know?” He replies, defensively, ‘cause it feels like something he should.

“Well alright,” Kenny mutters, “no need to get yourself worked up about it, huh? I figure you must’ve had at least one, at some point,” he grins, at his own stupid joke. “Look’it you. You’re half a man, now,” he laughs.

“Whatever,” Levi mutters, turning back to his caps.

“Tch,” Kenny says, “there’s one-hundred-and-twenty-two, same as there were when you counted them last. They ain’t going nowhere.” Kenny cocks the rifle. “Little men shouldn’t spend their time sitting at the kitchen table. You’ve gotta get out, boy. Put some hairs on your chest.”

“What, like you?” Levi sneers. “Fuckin’ dog-haired son of a bitch,” he mumbles under his breath. Mama told him a story once about men who turn into dogs on the full moon. Although – no, it had been wolves, she’d said, but Levi didn’t know a wolf, so she just said to imagine one of them pit dogs. And he’d never seen the moon back then, but his mom told him it was like a plate of milk, and that’s what he imagined. But he can imagine the wolf-men just fine – Kenny’s a fuckin’ wolf-man, he thinks.

Kenny clicks his tongue. “Well, you’ve got a mouth on you, now. Y’know, sometimes I miss those days you never said a word at all.”

No reason for it, Levi thinks. He just didn’t have nothing to say. He shrugs, morosely, stacks the caps.

Kenny seems to be watching him, thinking on something. “You want to go out back and shoot some bottles?”

Levi’s ears perk up. “Yeah?” He asks, solemnly. “You mean it? You really mean it?”

“Well, you’re half a man, ain’t you? I figure you gotta learn some time.”

Kenny sets all his old beer bottles – there’s more than thirty – out on some upturned crates by the walls. Kenny’s hideout is end-of-the-line. All you’ve got this way are the rock walls, the stairs, and – if you’re small, and clever, like Levi – cracks in the stone that leads to caves where Levi sometimes figures he’s the first person to ever go, ever. Kenny had gotten mad fierce with him, the first time he realised Levi was sneaking through the cracks. “Are you damn stupid, boy?” He’d shook him. “You want to get stuck in there, choking to death, be my guest.”

Kenny shows him how to reload, and how to aim, and pull the trigger. It takes Levi a few turns, but he picks it up as easy as he picks up everything else. Levi’s a quick learner. He never needs to be told how to do a thing twice. It’s like he already knows it, somehow, although Kenny says that’s just cockiness talking, and he shouldn’t let it get to his head. Levi aims down the rifle, squints. He pulls the trigger, feels the kickback before he even sees if he’s hit the target.

“You’re strong,” Kenny tells him, almost approving. “Must run in – your blood,” he says.

Levi kisses his teeth, reloads. “My Mom wasn’t so strong,” he replies. He aims down the sights. He doubts his father was, either, based off the kind of men who used to frequent their room. Some of them drug-sick, booze-sick, sometimes half-starved.

“No,” Kenny agrees, “I suppose she wasn’t.”

Levi feels something like irritation. “If she was any strong,” he mutters, “she wouldn’t’ve just let’em do that to her.” He fires, and feels a blow to the back of the head kicking him off balance. He grips his head. Kenny’s hit him. “Goddamn!” Levi cries, “What the shit was that for?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ talk about your mother like that,” Kenny snarls at him, “have a bit of goddamned respect – “

“It’s true, though!” Levi says. “You say it all the time! You say she was a stupid whore – “

Kenny raises his hand warningly, and Levi recoils.

“Well sometimes I just says things, you’re not supposed to take me serious, I don’t know what I’m talking about half the time,” Kenny scoffs. “And you,” he warns, gripping the front of Levi’s shirt, “should know damn better. What kind of brat talks bad about their own mother – “

Levi feels guilty, but it’s that stubborn kind of guilt, where you don’t feel you can admit it. “Yeah, well she didn’t have to – “

Levi stops himself when he sees the look on Kenny’s face. Murderous.

He pulls himself out of Kenny’s grip, slaps his hand away. “What,” he sneers at him, and raises the rifle again, squints down at the bottles, “you in love with her or something?”

“We were good friends,” Kenny says, and leaves it at that, and that’s all he ever leaves it at, as if Levi isn’t old enough to know that whores don’t have good friends, not even with other women, and especially not with men like Kenny.

“Whatever,” Levi mutters, and doesn’t push it. It feels good holding Maria in his hands. He prefers the knife, he thinks, but his is good too – this is powerful. Bang bang bang. He could blow off all their heads, if he wanted. He’d count it as he did it. Finch. Bang. Kenny. Bang. The man with the apples. Bang bang bang, three times, he’d hit him in the balls and the heart and the brain, and then he’d leave his corpse for the rats to chew on. Or even better, get him in the knees so he can’t crawl away, throw him in the canal and let him drown in the sludge, slowly, while the rats strip him clean. That’s what he deserves. Levi feels better to think about it. Yeah, that’s what he’ll do.

Levi sniffs. “Gimme some more ammo,” he says. Kenny obliges, dropping the cartridges into his palm then sitting back on his barrel. Levi knocks the lever forward, the spent cartridge dropping onto the ground with a crackle. He’ll pick it up, add it to his collection. He reloads smoothly, hikes the rifle back up. Kenny’s right – he is strong, now, and it’s not just because he’s been eating good these past few years. Something’s changed in him, or is changing in him. His shoulders are getting bigger, his arms have gone from wiry to corded with muscle. It’s a hard life, Kenny told him, and it makes you a hard man, d’you understand?

No. Levi never really understands half the crap Kenny talks about. He aims down the sights. “This time,” Kenny tells him, “aim for the lip.”

Levi frowns, irritated that Kenny has disrupted his flow. “Why?” He asks.

“Well why the hell not? If you’ve got skill, hone it.” Kenny sucks his teeth. “Unless you think you can’t hack it,” he shrugs, folds his arms.

“Tch,” Levi mutters. Seems pointless to him. The bottles are slightly bigger than the average person’s heart – getting hit anywhere is going to stick’em, he doesn’t need to be so damn precise. But Kenny likes to set him stupid tasks. Fine. Well fine. Levi’ll prove him wrong, anyhow. Stupid Kenny.

He sets the rifle back between his hands, exhales slow through his mouth. Narrows his vision. His finger ghosts the trigger. Don’t think, Kenny tells him. Don’t think about anything at all. You know what you’ve ‘gotta do.

Levi fires, disengages the lever and lets the cartridge roll onto the floor. Kenny slides off his barrel, makes his way to the cave wall, picks up the bottle and holds it up: the lip is gone, just green jagged lines spiking, neat. “Well well,” Kenny says, approvingly. “So you do got it then, huh?”

“Huh,” Levi agrees, ears flushing. He’s not a total waste of space, see. He’s good at some things. Kenny’s the strongest, see – he’s the strongest person there is, Above or Below, Levi knows that, he’s seen it with his own two eyes. That’s the food chain: there are forces of nature, and then there are titans, and then there’s Kenny. Other humans come under him. Kenny’s explained it. The rich folk like nobles and merchants and whatever. Then soldiers. Then everyone else, depending on how much cash they got, and where they live in the walls. But Kenny’s number one. Even more than the king? Levi had asked him, and Kenny had laughed, like he’d said something funny. Yeah, he’d said. I could even fuck the king.

Kenny’s the strongest, but one day, Levi’s going to be stronger. Even though he’s all small and screwy, and he’s too soft, Kenny says, because he was raised with women. But he has potential, Kenny thinks. Levi would like to be strong. He wonders if Kenny would want that, even – isn’t the point of being top of the food chain being unbeatable? Seems kind of stupid then, Kenny putting all this effort into making him fight. He doesn’t even know why Kenny keeps him around at all, because he’s not a nice guy, really.

He reloads, frowns, aims at the bottles. “Say Kenny,” he asks, “are you my dad?”

Kenny snorts, sits himself back on his barrel. “Nope,” he tells him.

Levi shoots. Disengages the catch. Reloads. Aims. “So why’d you take me, then?” He asks him, squinting his eye. He waits for an answer before he shoots.

“’Cause,” Kenny shrugs. “I saw potential.”

Levi frowns. He lowers the rifle. “Huh?” That can’t be right. “You said I was barely human.”

Kenny is putting a cigarette between his teeth, striking a match. “Yeah,” he agrees, “you were.” He flicks the match onto the ground; Levi watches it roll into a puddle. “But you were livin’, weren’t you?”

Just about. Levi doesn’t like to think on it.

“So, what is it I told you?” Kenny demands. “What is it you got to, before anything else?”

“Survive,” Levi tells him, dutifully.

“Damn straight.” Kenny inhales and coughs, slightly, exhales all that smoke through his nose. “You were alive, just about. Potential.”

Levi doesn’t really get what all that means, but he figures it’s a good thing if Kenny thinks he has potential, even if he’s not sure what for. He re-aims and takes fire. He wonders if he can convince Kenny to take him Above again – maybe one day, he’ll be good enough to help Kenny with whatever it is he does up there when he disappears for weeks at a time. Levi would like to live Above. He’d like it more than anything. Somewhere with trees, he thinks.

And then he feels guilty all over again, thinking about Mama and the things she told him. Trees, she’d said, and explained them, and Levi had thought she was lying but had asked her to tell it again, tell it again, tell it again. But Mama’s dead now and it’s Levi’s fault for being such a damn good-for-nothing brat, is what. Tch, couldn’t even – couldn’t even lift the medicine right. Couldn’t even get the food. And then sitting there in that room and waiting to die. Pathetic.

Levi takes it out on the remaining bottles. When he’s done, Kenny wordlessly passes him his cigarette, lets him finish it while he reloads, does some practicing of his own. Levi smokes, kicking his feet against the crate, thinking about what they’re gonna do for dinner. And his feet don’t reach the floor.

He watches Kenny do it, bang bang bang. He wonders if he’ll ever be like that, so scary that no one ever touches him at all, and he just gets to do whatever he wants whenever, like eat when he wants and steal what he wants and whatever. Kenny’s the strongest, but Levi would like to be, one day. He wants to be just as strong as Kenny so no one can ever put the drop on him, not ever again. So that like – when the man with the apples used to come, and do those things to Mama. No one’s gonna lock Levi in a closet, nuh-uh, never again. And no one’s gonna treat him bad like Finch used to treat him bad, hitting him all the damn time, and pulling his hair, and using his belt. That’s ‘cause of Kenny, though. That’s ‘cause Kenny found him, and taught him how.

Being with Kenny’s better than being alone, anyhow. If Levi’s good enough, he might convince Kenny to take him Above again. Levi wonders sometimes if maybe they can’t live there – if he was braver, he’d ask him about it. He wouldn’t be any trouble, he wouldn’t get in Kenny’s hair, he could be helpful, like. He could do all the things he does for Kenny Underground but Above, and it would be better, the air would be cleaner and the meat would be leaner and the vegetables would be fresh. Levi’s just got to prove it to him, somehow. He doesn’t know how, exactly, hasn’t got that figured yet. But once he’s proved it, Kenny’ll take him Above, he’s sure of it. Everything’ll be better, then.

-

He’s going to leave the boy tonight, he’s decided. He decided it some days ago, in fact, after the kid had lifted enough food to see them through for the week, had displayed it proudly on the table and recounted his story of getting it. Kenny had decided it, right then and there: the boy can steal, the boy can fight. He’ll never go hungry, and he’ll never get hands laid on him. So far as Kenny’s concerned, that’s a job done. He’s getting sick of this place anyway, the filth of it all. It’s no good for his work. These past few months, he’s been gone more than he’s been here, anyway; the brat’s handled it just fine, even if he is a little snippy with him when he gets back.

He figured he’d give him a go with Maria, before he leaves. The boy can keep the safehouse, it’s probably like a home to him now, no use unsettling him. So long as he keeps to himself, and plays his cards right, no one’s gonna take it from him – Kenny reckons he’s got more than enough in him to hold his own, protect it if needs must. No doubt, Uri’s going to give him shit for it – he’s always so minded to get bothered about Kenny’s business, and him and his, although Kenny figures he’d be better off turning his eye to his own people. He knows his thick-waisted brother’s knocked up another one of his whores, and Kenny’s not inclined to have to slit her throat.

Not that it matters, what he’s inclined, or what he’s not. If it needs done, it needs done. It’s not his sister, after all.

Someone’s sister, Uri tells him, sadly. Someone’s daughter.

Kenny wants to tell him to fuck off, talking that crap about orders he’s given, like that business with the teacher a couple years back. Uri talks like he doesn’t have a choice, half the time. Kenny asks him about it, the answer’s always the same. And Kenny figures – well, if the King of Humanity, with the power over them all, doesn’t have damn choice, why should Kenny get worked up trying to beat fate? He wipes a lip of foam with his hand, watches Levi sneak another cigarette from the pocket of Kenny’s coat, like he thinks he won’t notice. Kenny supposes he might miss him, in his own way. Oftentimes, when he’s Above, he sees a child roughly Levi’s height, and it makes him think on it, his bold, bratty nephew, who gives him nothing but lip, and nothing but trouble, and eats him out of house and home.

Strange little kid, he hears, drifting between his ears. Little freak, little monster. Little freak, isn’t he? Not human, not natural.

Kenny bats away the voices with his hand the way you’d bat away a fly. “Hey,” he demands, suddenly, “ain’t you got any friends?” He asks.

Levi freeze, cigarette balanced between his teeth, about to strike the match. “I don’t need friends,” he says, stubbornly, when he realises Kenny isn’t going to give him shit for it.

“Well why the hell not? Everyone needs friends,” Kenny tells him, scanning the room for a barmaid.

“Yeah? Where the fuck are yours, old man?” Levi sneers, which provokes a laugh out of Kenny, for what it’s worth.

“I have friends,” he tells him. Well. A friend. Although that’s… yeah. Levi’s probably too young to know the ins and outs of that kind of friendship, not that he’d need to be told, his mother being what his mother was. “You just don’t see’em,” he says.

“Yeah, well maybe if you took me Above, I would,” Levi mutters, and folds his arms on the table, rests his chin on them as he smokes, exhaling smoke. He’s getting sleepy, Kenny thinks, with a brief fondness that gets smothered quick by the kid’s words. Above, he thinks. Fuckin’ sick, that the brat thinks of it that way, like it’s – like is beyond-the-walls, or one of the places Uri tells him about, that used to exist, or still exist in his old books. He wants to say, it’s no better up there than down here, but what he really means is, you’re a bastard whoreson, and you don’t know it, Levi, but they treat people like you worse Above than you’ll ever be treated Underground. Down here, so so long as your quick with a knife, you can hold your own, there’s not a single person who can judge you. Not a single person who can spit down on you.

“You should get yourself some friends,” Kenny advises, and thinks what else he needs to say. “Get yourself some people you can trust, at least. Just a couple. People don’t last long on their own. Like your – well, your mother,” he tells him, and doesn’t think on it. “You don’t want to end up like her, d’you?”

Levi shakes his head.

“Fine.” Kenny stands. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I’m heading to the bar, d’you want anything?” Kenny figures he’ll feed him one last time, give him enough to last him, it’s the least he can do.

“Just the usual,” Levi yawns, and rests his head on his arms.

Kenny orders himself a pie and gets the brat a bowl of the house stew and some bread. He spies the empty beer bottles, piled up beneath the bar.

“Say,” Kenny asks the barkeep, nodding his head, “you got the caps still?”

The barkeep raises his eyes. “Well sure,” he says, “you’re not thinking ‘bout meltin’ them down for scrap, are you? ‘Cause they don’t pay as well as they used to, it’s not worth the labour.”

Kenny laughs. “Nah,” he says, “it’s the kid. He collects them, see.”

“Oh? You figure he’d want to take some of them off my hands?”

“How many you got?”

The barkeep snorts. “If he doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, he’s welcome to ‘em. We’ve just been letting them build up since they slashed the prices – they’re not worth jackshit.”

“Appreciate it,” Kenny tells him. That’ll keep the boy busy for at least the next few days, although who fuckin’ knows what it is he gets from it. “Kid,” he tells him, carrying a fresh tankard back to the table, “they got more ‘em – what you call ‘em, bottle caps, like,” Kenny says.

Levi’s eyes had been drooping, the cigarette hanging limp from his lips, but now he perks up. “Yeah?” He asks, sitting up a little straighter. “Where?”

Kenny jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Ask the barkeep.”

Levi scrambles off the bench, and Kenny tells him to be back for the food, or else he’ll eat his share, and he’s not joking. He finishes the brat’s cigarette, thinks he’s got a hard lesson coming if he can’t earn enough to keep himself supplied, wonders idly to himself what he’ll get himself into, after Kenny’s gone. If he’s smart, he’ll get himself some friends, first of all. Kenny’s tried to teach him that, but it doesn’t really stick – the boy isn’t for people, that’s for certain. Charisma goes a long fuckin’ way, but so long as he’s strong, he’ll be able to keep all his limbs intact.

He lets his mind wander past Levi (scrawny brat, a voice says, midget, waste-of-space, failed abortion) and onto more pleasant things. A nice warm library, some of the good scotch, fresh bathed and feet stretched out in front of the fire. And so, the knight cursed the king, he’ll read, who had betrayed his oath, and took back his word, Uri will read to him. It’ll be so damn quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Kenny’ll – he’ll rest his hand against Uri’s thin little ankle, his feet tucked beneath Kenny’s thigh for warmth. That’s what life’s about, after all. You’ve got to take your damn pleasure where you can, fight for it, because no one’s going to give it out for free.

The barmaid lays the food on the table, but Levi still isn’t back. Goddamn, Kenny knows what’s gotten into him – he’ll be sitting out in that back-alley, squatting in a puddle somewhere, counting out his fuckin’ bottle caps. He’ll have lost track of the time – he does that, Kenny’s noticed, when he’s counting. He’s minded to eat Levi’s share, just like he said he would, but it’s their last damn meal together, even if Levi don’t know it yet. There are other things he wanted to tell him. More things he needs to say, that when Levi wakes up in the morning and sees he’s gone, will make all the more sense to him.

He throws Maria over his shoulder to avoid her getting lifted, tells the drunk the next bench over to watch their plates or he’ll pop him in the head. Kenny slips at the back door, into the alley beneath the stalagmites. It takes him half-a-second to size up exactly what’s happening, half-a-second more to aim Maria with a sickness in his belly and a fire in his heart. He slits the first man’s head off his shoulders, sets him cleanly through the head the eye the way his Pa used to get a deer, and then gets sloppy ‘cause he’s so damn angry he isn’t seeing straight, knicks the second on the neck. He’s choking and gagging, hands pressed to his throat, and he’s getting his blood all over the kid, who’s slid down the barrel they had him bent over, has tucked himself between it and the back-wall of the bar.

Kenny doesn’t hurry. He stares down at the man, impassively, his eyes wide, coughing blood. “It’s not like that,” he’s gurgling, “it wasn’t like that!”

Kenny deliberates. He tips the end of Maria against the middle of his brow, squints down the sights. It would burst his head open like rotten fruit if Kenny popped him from so close, but it would be quick, too. People always thinking – thinking they can lay hands on him and his, and for what? They put hands on his mother, and his brother, and his damn helpless little sister, and all for what, for a name Kenny doesn’t care for and a legacy he can’t remember. Tch. Why waste the damn bullet? He lifts Maria, drives the barrel into the man’s skull. He’s strong, of course, he’s hopelessly strong; it cracks off a slice of the man’s skull, but he’s still gurgling like a little bitch, so Kenny smears his brain into the dirty cobbles, then beats his face with the rifle butt until he’s just a smear on the cobbles, ‘til there’s no man left at all, really, just a body and a bloody, bone-filled puddle.

He steps back, wipes the blood off his eyes, spits. Some of it’s gotten in his mouth. He slings Maria back over his shoulder, turns slowly on his heel, to take in his worthless, no-good nephew. There any fuckin’ Ackerman in you at all? His Pa screams at him. Goddamn, boy! You gonna let them treat you like that?

Levi is hunched forward, gingerly trying to scoop up his scattered bottle caps – it sets Kenny’s pulse thumping, makes him see red. He’s picking up those stupid fucking caps before he’s even pulled up his damn pants. He’s counting each of them into his palm. Stupid fucking bitch, a voice tells him, stupid little brat, worthless, stupid, put-him-out-of-his-misery, it tells him

Kenny kicks the barrel by his head. It splinters, caves in beneath his foot, and he has to kick it off, rattling it across the alley. Levi flinches hard, drops his caps back onto the muddy, bloody ground. “So what was it?” Kenny sneers. “You so damn caught up in your stupid fuckin’ game you didn’t hear them coming?”

The kid covers his head with his hands, cowers like an animal. Like a little fuckin’ rat, a voice sneers, worthless little rat, shitty little rat, no-good for nothing little rat, pig-feed –

“You stupid fuckin’ brat,” Kenny spits. “What’s the point of goddamn near everything I’ve taught you, if you’re just gonna let them pull that? Huh? Huh?” He paces, kicks at a muddy puddle in his direction. The spray flicks him with dark spots, but this time he doesn’t flinch. “Or is not like that?” He demands, foul. “You lead them to it, huh? You figure you’re old enough, is that it? You think you know what’s what, stupid fuckin’ idiot, stupid little bitch.”

Levi doesn’t answer, not even to protest. Well, perhaps he doesn’t even damn know what they wanted him for. “What, your mother didn’t tell you what’s what?” Kenny snarls, “I’ve got to fuckin’ teach that lesson to you, too? Get up,” he spits, kicks the barrel again. This time, it shatters, planks of wood splitting off the metal rims. Some of the debris scatters at the brat’s feet. “Get up,” he orders again.

The brat doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch, head-between-his-knees. He’s lost one of his shoes. Well Goddamn, where’s it got to? “Get up,” he tells him, knocks him with his foot. He knows how to get him moving in his stubborn moods. “You want me to leave you, then? Fine. Bye,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets, turning on his heel. He waits for the inevitable slap of a cheap shoe, too small for his feet, fraying. It doesn’t come.

Kenny seethes. Maybe he’s hurt, he thinks, rationally. Maybe he’s twisted an ankle, or some such thing. Well he can’t leave the brat sitting out there like bait, can he? He turns back round. Levi hasn’t moved except to lift his head, slightly, brow poking up between his legs. He’s lying where Kenny left him, knees pulled up to his chest, blood spray on his face, wood chips in his hair. Kenny nudges his bare hip with his foot.  “Brat,” he grunts, “You hurt?”

It shouldn’t matter. Even if he’s hurt, that’s not got to mean anything. One day, soon, Levi’ll be hurt, and he’ll have to take care of it himself, otherwise he’ll die. He should know better. It’s one of the first things Kenny taught him.

But the kid hasn’t even pulled up his pants. He’s got his eyes all fixed on something on the ground; Kenny tries to track his gaze, but it goes nowhere, looks at nothing he can see.

Kenny clears his throat. “Kid,” he says. “Did y’hit your head, or somethin’?” He crouches, ends of his coat trailing in the muck. He pats Levi’s cheek, twice. “C’mon.” He says. “Get up. Get up now, boy.”

Beneath the blood-shit-sewage-sweat, there’s another thing, sharp and savage. The kid’s pissed himself, sitting in a damn puddle of it, and he’s trembling, little hands twitching on his shaking knees. Well, he’s not seeing Kenny at all. He’s not seeing a damn thing, and it looks like he’s forgotten how to blink.

Kenny tilts his chin up to the stalagmites, exhales slowly, eyes shut. Alright. Fine. You fuckin’ pissed yourself? He hears his Pa say, derisively. At your big age? It hadn’t been Kenny’s fault, like. He’d kicked him so hard in the stomach he couldn’t help it. And it had hurt worse than the pain, how fuckin’ stupid he felt, after. Stupid worthless piss-baby, a voice drifts, aimlessly, but Kenny quashes it easy enough. “Well,” he hears himself say, tiredly, “these things happen, don’t they? We don’t need to be actin’ all – all shy about it, now. C’mon.” He picks his hat off his head and drops it over Levi’s. It’s still too big for him. It drops over his eyes. Stupid kid. Stupid kid, not even big enough to wear a hat.

He puts his hands on the boy’s shoulders, tips him into his chest, and pulls his pants back up over his hips, cursory. No damage, he notes. Fine. Not that it would change anything if there was. He stands the boy back against the wall, ties up the drawstring, pretends not to smell the piss, which is about as kind as he’s capable of being. “Tch,” he says, thinking maybe the boy is ashamed – he’s usually so fuckin’ infuriating, with his keeping everything so clean, “how many times you seen me piss myself roaring drunk, huh?”

He flicks the rim of the hat on Levi’s head. Kid’s still staring at a thing Kenny can’t see, shaking like he’s got the chills. He doesn’t bother asking Levi if he can walk. He picks him up from under his arms, dangling in his grip like a scruffed kitten, and props him up against his hip. “You want to hold Maria?” He asks.

Levi doesn’t answer, but he settles his head into the crook of Kenny’s neck, one hand curled by his mouth, sucking on his thumb like a damn baby, like that first day when he pulled him from that stinking room. Goddamn, no. This is their last day. It can’t be like this, can it? It can’t be in all these years they’re right back where they started, all Kenny’s lessons for nothing, the boy just as weak as he was back then, all distended stomach and overblown knees.

“Stop that,” Kenny orders, smacks his hand away from his mouth as he starts to walk. Levi’s hands hang limp, now, and he doesn’t try to suck his thumb again. Good. He too old for that kind of nonsense, Kenny thinks. It’s no good wearing your vulnerabilities out your sleeve like that. Although, he’s a child, he counters internally. Children have vulnerabilities, he supposes.

He tries to really think – how old is the kid, now? He’s ageless in Kenny’s eyes. Too old in some ways, too young in others. Sometimes, rarely, he’s just a kid – like when he’d lost his two front teeth and spent a couple weeks whistling every time he talked until his adult ones came in, or that damn dog he’d thought he’d kept hidden, mangy and one-eyed, feeding it scraps. It had gone lame in the end; Kenny’d had to do the decent thing, put it down. He’d never seen the kid bawl so hard at anything, ever, or since.

He doesn’t even try to hold on to Kenny; no fingers curling in his coat, knees digging into his sides. No tears, either, and that’s a good thing, Kenny thinks. He can’t stand the tears. It’s a good thing Levi’s not prone to them. Kuchel had been, but they’d been normal children, then – they’d had the luxury of crying over bedtimes and farm work and their ignorant, pig-fucking, piss-drinking father.

He'll fix this, quickly. He’ll just – he’ll see to it, teach the kid a final lesson, and tomorrow, he’ll go. It’s no use getting angry at the kid for not – it’s not as if he knows he’s shot a bullet through Kenny’s plan, it’s not like he did it on purpose. He mounts the stairs back up to the hideout, slides the key in the lock, and leaves Maria by the kitchen table. It’s only the one room, plus the washroom. Levi’s taken pride in it, though – although he probably would, ‘cause the room Kenny found him in was smaller than the damn privy, and filthier besides.

“Here,” Kenny mutters, sits Levi on the stool where they wash. He pulls a bucket of water from the well outside the window, puts it down, leaves out the rag. “Go on,” he says. He kicks the bucket. “Look, I’ll give y’privacy, go on.” He turns his back, stuffs his hands in his pockets, waits for the swish of water. It doesn’t come. He looks over his shoulder. The kid’s just sitting there, in his piss-soaked pants, like he’s forgotten he has arms.

Kenny’s not sure how he ends up on his knees, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cupping the back of the kid’s head, rubbing blood and snot and spit off his face with the rag, rough-like. He dips it back in the water, wrings it out, takes care of the rest. The kid shivers on the stool while Kenny takes his clothes back out, leaves them in a pile in the corner. They’re his only set. They’re getting small for him, anyway. Maybe Kenny’ll get him some new ones. Or – help him lift some better ones. Although sometimes with clothes, it’s better to just pay. When you’re shivering to death on a cold night you’re not missing the extra ten coins you could have paid to be warm.

No, he remembers. Kenny is leaving, tomorrow. He’s packing up and he’s going. That was his plan. This is just a temporary setback.

Kenny only had one shirt that’s half-way clean. The kid handles all that, washing and cleaning and laundry and the like. They get along well like that, he thinks. Accord well enough, don’t they? They’re a good little team, in their own way. Tch, not that it matters. The shirt will be too big for him, but Kenny figures he’d tear at his own skin if he put him back in his dirty things. Spoiling him, someone tells him, and he bats them away.

He pushes the kids arms into the sleeves, buttons it up from collar to tip. “Y’look damn near ridiculous,” Kenny mutters. The boy’s still trembling. “You cold?”

Levi blinks, rapidly. He chances a look at Kenny, folds his arms. He nods. So now, Kenny’ll have to light the fire, too. Well it’s no skin off his back. It’s just coal that Levi’s taking from himself, because Kenny’s not going to be here to replace it, come morning.

“C’mon,” he says, and jerks his chin. “Get your scrawny ass off that stool, and maybe you’ll stop shivering.”

He pulls out a chair at the table, carelessly, lets Levi climb onto it. He’s minded to keep him occupied, distract him, even; he heads to the boy’s cot, gets down on his knees and checks underneath – he’s got a dozen or so rags of bottle-caps, tied up. Kenny drops a bag of caps on the kitchen table, watches some of them spill out onto the wood grain. “There,” he orders. “Count those, then, whatever it is you do.”

The boy stares down at the caps. He rubs his eye with his fist, tiredly, and sniffs. Listlessly, he starts to count them, whatever game it is he’s invented, one cap at a time.

“I’m sorry,” Kenny ventures, “that you lost the new ones.” That I spooked you out of them, he means, but would never say.

The boy shrugs a shoulder.

Kenny does some of his own counting. Levi must’ve been seven when he found him – he knows it had been seven years, give or take, since he found Kuchel in that brothel. It’s been three years since. So he’s not so old, still. Kenny is – Kenny’s probably too harsh on him, expecting too much. He’s only ten. And he’s a mature ten, Kenny’ll give him that – what was Kenny doing at ten? Shooting passers-by with his slingshot, giving his mother hell, skipping the shitty school down the lane.

He feels sick inside himself, all at once. “Say,” he tries, folding his hands on his hips, jerking his chin. “How’d you play?”

Levi looks up at him. “Play?” He croaks, voice raspy like an old mans, eyes dull. It’s the first thing he’s said, since.

“Yeah.” Kenny gestures his hands at the caps. “What’s the game?”

Levi stares down at them, back up. “I just count,” he says.

“But what you counting for?” Kenny insists. “You gotta be counting for somethin’, right?”

Levi blinks, slowly. He shakes his head. “Nah,” he whispers. “I just like knowin’ it’s gonna be the same every time.” He rubs at his nose with his hand, looks down.

Well, that’s something, then. Kenny sets about getting together some firewood, a couple of lumps of coal. He’s about to light the match when he hears the brat sniffing.

“Boy,” Kenny says, disgusted, looking over his shoulder, “that the fuck you snivellin’ for, huh?”

Levi blinks back fat, unshed tears, rubs at his nose. “I lost count,” he croaks, and smears the caps out on the table, starts again. “M’sorry,” he tells him. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he says, feverishly, “I just lost count, is all.”

Freak, someone tells him, or Kenny thinks, he can’t tell which. Well there’s no worry there, then – Levi’s never going to be stronger than him, not that he ever really thought it. “Keep that to yourself,” Kenny mutters, and strikes the fire.

“No, I ain’t crying,” Levi says, defiantly, even though he’s still sniffling, rubbing at his eyes. “That’s baby shit.”

“Damn straight,” Kenny murmurs, staring at the flames. He turns back. “You hungry?”

The brat shakes his head.

“You must be,” Kenny scoffs. “You didn’t even touch your stew.”

“Ain’t,” he says, “not.”

“Ain’t not?” Kenny tries to tease, but the boy just looks at him blankly, so he sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. “Alright then, if you say so.”

The boy stares at the table, or the bottle-caps, as if trying to find some greater meaning in them. “I – I couldn’t eat,” he tells him, voice all soft and thin, like. “I’d get sick up on myself, I think.”

He looks at Kenny then, helplessly, like he expects him to do something about it, or say something that’ll make it better. Kenny doesn’t know how. He’s not that kind of person. There are people who can do it better – Uri could, if he sat Levi in front of him, he bets Uri would know exactly what to say. He’s good with that niece of his. What Levi needs – what he really needs – is a damn mother, but he ain’t got one, and that’s on Kenny, too.

“C’mon,” Kenny says, quietly. He holds out his hand. “If you’re feelin’ sick, then you’d best get to bed, yeah?”

“Can I take the caps?” He croaks.

Kenny resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mutters. “You sleep in the big bed tonight, alright?” It’s gonna be his bed soon enough, anyway.

“I’m not really sick, though,” Levi says.

Well, you are, but in a different way, Kenny doesn’t tell him. He’d let Levi sleep in the big bed when he’d had a fever, couple years back. “C’mon,” he says again, forcefully. He walks him to the bed, pulls back the sheets. “Here,” he tells him, “get it. Go on.”

Levi climbs in, settles himself in the middle of the bed. He watches Kenny with careful, measured eyes. Well, that’s Kenny’s fault, likely. He shouldn’t’ve snapped at him like that, back there, in the alley. No doubt it just – unnerved him, some. It unnerved Kenny, when his Pa used to shout. He’d go running for his Grandpa like a damn baby, then. Tell you what, Kenny, he’d tell him, what you got to do, is imagine this here knife, and your slitting whatever son-of-a-bitch thinks he’s going to try and put it to you, you hear? Because you’re going to be the strongest, one day, and then none of it will matter, anyway.

Yeah. You gotta protect yourself, and your own. “Look,” Kenny says. “I’ve got old Maria. Who’s gonna get in while I’m holding this bad bitch, huh?”

Levi nods, solemnly, and settles down against the pillows. Kenny kicks off his shoes and joins him, lies above the covers, folds his hands on his stomach, stares at the ceiling. He exhales, slowly, exhaustedly. “Look,” he starts.

“Yeah, m’sorry,” Levi mutters, and it’s almost petulant, which is a good sign. He’s getting some of his kick back. Never one to let setbacks hold him down, his Levi. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“Well alright, but are you gonna listen to me?” Kenny accuses, twisting his head to look at the little bundle curled on its side. “Listen to me,” he orders. “Are you listenin’, Levi?”

The bundle nods.

“Fine. You can’t – shut down,” Kenny tells him, flatly. “Not ever. When we see danger coming our way we either got to fight, or we got to run. Now, you’re a good runner,” he says. “I’ve seen it. Fastest kid I’ve ever seen, fastest person I ever saw, alright? So if you don’t think you can fight – even though you can, and you could’ve, you have to run. Understand, Levi?”

“Yeah,” Levi says, voice small, and muffled. “I understand.”

“You, uh,” Kenny squints at the ceiling, tries to think. “You remember that dog of yours? The sick one.”

Levi nods again.

“You remember when I came at it, and it just stood there, frozen like? D’you remember?”

“Uh huh,” Levi says, and he sounds weepy again, but trying to hide it.

“Well, that’s ‘cause it was sick, and it didn’t know how to fight back. It couldn’t run, ‘cause it was lame, and it couldn’t fight anymore, so it just sat there, and let it happen. Sometimes when we’re scared,” Kenny tells him, and shuts his eyes. He can feel his legs pounding beneath him, Kuchel’s hand slipping in his, scorched clothes and singed hair, “Something weird happens, right? We go all – all stiff, like. D’you figure, that’s what happened to you?”

A beat. Levi nods again.

“Next time, you fight that, too, you hear?” Kenny orders. “You’re – you’re better than that. Other people, they let fear freeze ‘em up, but you’re different. D’you know why?”

“’Cause I got the spark,” Levi repeats, dutifully, dully.

“Damn straight,” Kenny says, and he knocks his fist against Levi’s shoulder. “You’ve got the spark. So you’re better than all of ‘em, Levi, ain’t you?”

Levi doesn’t answer straight away, but after a time, he rolls to face Kenny, pushes himself up on his hands. “But Kenny,” he says, and his voice is thin again, and he’s gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “They were gonna do me like they did Mama?” He croaks. It’s a question, Kenny thinks. He’s probably trying to make sense of it all.

“Yeah,” Kenny tells him. “Somethin’ like that.”

The kid sniffs. “I asked her – I asked, why’d she gotta let them do it. Why’d she never fight back.”

Kenny shuts his eyes.

“She said – she said she just gotta,” the kid says, voice breaking. “She said it’s better to just let ‘em because they don’t hurt you so bad.”

“Alright, enough,” Kenny mutters. He doesn’t have to hear this. He doesn’t want to.

“I’m sorry,” the kid croons, like a sick dog whining, “I’ll do it better next time.”

“Enough of that,” Kenny snaps. “Shut it, brat.”

“This was this one guy, though,” Levi continues, like he hasn’t heard, “and he used to – he used to really hurt her.”

“Enough,” Kenny tells him, and this time, it’s an order. He feels the boy flinch, curl in on himself some more, wrapped in Kenny’s shirt. Kenny doesn’t need to hear it. He doesn’t need to hear about all the ways in which men hurt his little sister, or what kinds of horror the boy’s seen, heard. “I don’t want to hear it, understand? Save it for your pillow.” Kenny rolls his head, look away. “It’s no good thinking on things like that,” he explains. “If you speak it out loud, then it makes it real. Don’t speak on it. Just – forget it. Or keep it. And let it spark you.”

“He locked me in the closet,” Levi whispers, or tries, like he thinks Kenny’s got it in him to do anything about it.

“Shut up, Levi,” he dismisses.

He thinks the kid might’ve gone to sleep, but then he feels mattress shaking, some. Oh, Goddamn. No, not again. In three years, Kenny’s seen him get weepy once, maybe twice, and tonight he’s decided to let the damn waterworks flow?! Tonight, of all nights?! It’s like he knows Kenny’s dead-set on leaving him, it’s like he’s trying to – trying to guilt him, or something –

Well in fairness, he’s trying damn hard not to let it show, but whatever’s got him twisted has taken him hard enough that it’s a losing battle. “Alright,” Kenny says, roughly. “Alright, alright, kid. It’s alright, just – fine.” He lifts his hand, hovers it above Levi’s shoulder, thinks twice of it, and moves away.

“No, no, no, enough of that now, you hear?” Kenny tries, just a touch desperate. This is all more trouble than it’s worth – this isn’t what he signed up for, this isn’t what he knows how to do. “Levi. Boy,” he tries, but the boy’s sobbing into his hands, little shoulders shaking beneath Kenny’s billowing shirt.

He thinks, frantic-like. “Say,” he attempts, “you want to hold Maria?”

Strike him, Pa, or anyone’s, voice drifts through his head. Show him what’s what.

Kenny, Kuchel pleads. Just do this right by me, Goddamn, just this one thing.

Kenny wants to smack himself in the head, at this rate. He should rattle him, he should – should –

And the knight cursed the man, who had told the King so, he thinks, sitting in that warm library, of that soft voice, the scent of the lavender woven into Uri’s cloak. You who would call me slave, and from me my heart’s devotion, I curse. I curse you, I curse your sons, and your son’s sons.

Life’s pleasures, he thinks. What else is there, among all this… waste.

“Hey, Levi,” Kenny tries, “you want – you want to play a game?”

Levi rubs his arm across his eyes. “Huh?” He croaks, looking over his shoulder, all snivelly.

“Yeah, here, see,” Kenny tells him, earnestly. He grabs the sack of caps, scrubs them loose on the sheets, crosses his legs beneath himself. Gangly-legged freak, Kuchel would say, fondly. Legs like moose, Uri would laugh. “You gotta – nah, I’m not good at explainin’. Just watch.”

He sets one cap beneath the other, presses it with his thumb. It springs across the bed, to the other side. Levi blinks. He scrubs at his eyes. “Do it again,” he rasps.

Kenny shows him. “Here, now,” Kenny says, “you’ve gotta do it.”

“But I don’t know how,” he sniffs.

“Yeah, so? You gotta try, then.” Kenny takes another shot – this one flies off the edge of the mattress clatters on the floor. “No, see that’s a foul,” he explains. “I don’t get that point, ‘cause it went over.”

Levi tentatively presses one cap to the other, digs in his thumb. It jumps into the air and falls flat, a couple of inches away. He looks crestfallen. “Nah, I ain’t got it,” he mutters, “I’m no good.”

“Well you’re not even tryin’,” Kenny chides, lightly. “Practise it, go on.” He shows him again, and this time, Levi gets one half-way across the bed. He looks at Kenny, waits for his approval. “Yeah, see? Almost there,” Kenny tells him.

Levi takes aim again. He screws up his nose, puts his tongue between his teeth. They watch the cap spin through the air and land at the end of the bed. “Good one,” Kenny tells him, lines up a second shot, takes aim. It falls a little short of Levi’s. “See? You got me beat.”

“I – I got you beat?” Levi blinks.

“Sure you did. Go again,” he tells him. Levi knocks one off the bed, the second time, and doesn’t beat Kenny the third, but he does on their fourth round. “Alright,” Kenny tells him, “best of three, understand?”

The boy has his tongue planted right between his teeth like he’s going to bite it off. He scrutinizes Kenny’s play, the way he tacks the caps with his thumb, the arc of them through the air. He’s trying very hard, Kenny can tell, to try and copy him exactly. He’s morose when his second play falls flat, asks Kenny if they can do best of four, instead.

“Now, I can’t go changing the rules, just ‘cause your losing,” he tells him. He should say, life’s unfair, kid. So he doesn’t change the rules. But he lets his next turn fall flat, ‘tch’s’ dramatically, and when Levi’s final go passes it, his eyes widen.

He laughs. “I got you beat!” He cries, “I got you beat, old man!”

Kenny runs his hand through his hair, blows air. “Goddamn, looks like it,” he says. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet, huh?” And then he ruffles Levi’s hair, just for good measure.

“Tomorrow,” Levi makes him swear. He rubs at his eyes, still red-rimmed, but he’s forgotten his tears, it seems. Fucking hell, just a little inch of kindness, that’s all it takes, Kenny, is it so damn hard? “You’ll play tomorrow,” he says.

Kenny rubs at his nose. “Yeah,” he tells him, gruffly. “Yeah, so long as you go to sleep, now, and don’t give me bothering all night.” Maybe he can stay for tomorrow. Just give the kid this final thing, and then he’ll be gone, day after next. Just make sure he’s settled through this, it’s no skin off his back. Uri’s not going anywhere. The walls will still be standing come morning.

The kid settles back down on the bed sheets, breathing easier now, that ugly, jagged vacancy gone from his eyes. He yawns a little, rubs at his eyes again. “Can I have a smoke?” He asks, sleepily.

“No,” Kenny tells him. “Get to sleep.”

“Mmph,” Levi sighs, irritated. “Asshole,” he mutters, under his breath.

Kenny chooses to ignore it, tucks him in caterpillar style, the way his Grandpa would, from toe to head. It’s a fuckin’ straitjacket, being blunt – he used to tell Kenny it was the only way he could make sure he wasn’t going to run off in the night. “Good, yes?” Kenny asks him, hands braced on his hips.

“D’you know,” Levi tells him, sleepily, “above they have insects like moths, but not moths. They’re called butterflies, I think, I don’t know why though. But Mama said they come from – from – “ he frowns. “Nah, I can’t remember what,” he says, and yawns again.

Kenny looks away. “Yeah,” he agrees, listlessly. “Well maybe if you go above, you’ll see one. I’m not too fucked with them, to be honest,” he mutters. “Poncy little fuckers.”

Levi cracks open an eye. “I figure maybe – maybe we can’t go above?” He asks. “I won’t be… I won’t be no trouble,” he promises, earnestly, voice heavy with sleep.

“Nah,” Kenny murmurs. “There’s no shortage of scum up there, Levi.” He clicks his tongue. “People aren’t better. You’re not – “

He almost says, safe from it, but he doesn’t even know if the boy has a concept.

“ – you’re not better off,” he settles for. “They’ll treat you even worse,” he tells him, darkly. “Up there, Levi,” and he jerks his chin up at the ceiling. “Up there, you’re nothin’ but gutter trash. They can smell it off you. They’ll know it, ‘cause of how you talk, and how you walk, and ‘cause you’re stunted. They’ll smell the rat a mile off, you hear?”

“No, but – “ Levi shakes his head. “They don’t know that, they don’t have to know. I can just pretend, like. I can – talk fancy, or… or…”

“Nah, you can’t,” Kenny tells him. “Trust me,” he mutters, “it’s just somethin’ they can tell, it’s like a second sense.” He sits himself on the side of the bed, stares down at his shoes. “Look, listen to me,” he sighs, and rubs his eyes with his hand. “Down here, Levi… now, I know this don’t mean much to you, ‘cause you’re too young to understand it ‘n all, but down here, you can be king. You get that? You’re strong enough for that, I reckon. No one here could ever touch you, once you let the power spark you. You remember what I said about that? About the spark?” Kenny doesn’t wait for him to answer. “But up there,” he tells him, jerks his chin. “Up there, there’s – there’s titans, Levi. You can’t be stronger than titans, can you?”

“I d’know,” Levi mumbles, “I ain’t ever seen one.”

“Well you can’t,” Kenny tells him, flatly. “And you’d be stupid, suicidal to try, understand?” Uri’s given him the flat truth, about those brave fools, who throw themselves past the wall. “I got no respect for people who figure they’ll – kiss away their own life for a shot of something as worthless as glory. It’s a fool’s game, you hear? You’re given one life, and the power to control it with your own two hands, and if you – “

Levi doesn’t hear him. He’s already asleep, dreaming of – gutters, and alleyways, and titans, no doubt. Brain smeared on cobble, or a closet in a small room, a locked door. How is it someone so small’s got it in them to fight so damn hard? Near perfect shot, as strong as a grown man, near enough, although Kenny would never say it to his face, doesn’t want him getting complacent. And he’s not even like Kenny – he doesn’t even have that sickness inside him, that Kenny has, whatever it is. He’s good kid, Kenny thinks, hatefully. He deserves better.

And Kenny ain’t blind. The boy is attached. And truthfully – well. Truthfully, Kenny’s too invested, probably.

When, then? A voice asks. If not tonight, then when? There’s never going to be a day where no one’s never gonna hurt him. In fact, those men likely wouldn’t’ve killed him, if Kenny hadn’t showed – they’d have done their business, and Levi would’ve let them, and Kenny bets it would’ve made him a harder man, tougher. He bets, Levi would never freeze up like that again, if he really knew what it would cost him.

Kenny, Kuchel says. He avoids the shadow in the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to know what he’ll see when he looks. He pours himself some whiskey, ignores the corpse in the dirty shift lying face-up on the bed next to her son. When I turn around, he tells himself, she’ll be gone.

And she is. They always are.

Oh, Kenny will kill the kid, in his own way. No doubt about it. He’ll get him twisted in some scheme he has no business being apart of, or the kid’ll start to figure he can just follow Kenny’s lead, start trouble for no damn reason at all. Worse – Kenny’ll infect his brain like a rot. Whatever – God-fucking-damn, he doesn’t even want to use the word, but whatever innocence Levi still has… whatever it is that still lets him play with a piece of shit like Kenny, not even think twice about it, lookin’ at him with those earnest eyes… Kenny’ll scrub that from him, too. He’ll set the voices in Levi’s head, probably, and then the kid’ll never be free of them, will be haunted just as bad, and there’s no guarantee he’ll find a Uri who can take them away for him, because there’s no guarantee of kindness in this world, never, you have to take it where you can.

‘Course, it could be the voices will win out. Kill him, slit him, take his eyes, smother him, waste-of-space, they crow, when he lets them get loud enough, and sometimes they sound like his Pa, his Grandpa, Uri, Kuchel. Levi will be a voice, soon, if he lets him. That’s how this ends, he thinks. Either he ends Levi, or lets Levi’s voice infect him, same as all the others. Uncle, he might say, sitting on an upturned box in the corner of Kenny’s eyes, don’t I get to go above?

Kenny resists the urge to clap his hands over his ears. Tonight, the boy breathes on, and that’s enough. Tomorrow’s a fair bet. Day after that, he knows. One day at a time, it’s all they can hope for. You can count each day, he thinks, and hope there’s never day you lose the count.