Harrington 4

Inoculated City

I wake up with an intense neck cramp and a mouth so dry it could put the Sahara to shame. I kick the blanket off of me and sit up, my head pounding immediately. I glance at my watch and groan. It's past two. I guess the journey over kind of drained me, added to how little I've been sleeping these past couple days.

Despite my extensive slumber, my limbs ache as I stand, and my back cracks when I stretch. I fight the urge to quench my thirst with a drink from my bag, instead heading to the sink and searching for a glass to fill with water. All of them are dirty, so I pull one from the sink, rinse it out, fill it with water, chug it in one go, and then fill it again.

My eyes find a note on the counter written in Steve's barely legible scrawl.

Drove Robin to school, then I'm heading to work. Get off at five. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Steve.

I look back into the fridge, but it's still just the same old lettuce and hot dogs and expired milk. The cupboards are nearly worse, cobwebs framing two boxes of cereal and a bag of Doritos. I pick up the note and turn it over.

P.S. take a shower — you stink.

I smile, glancing at my face in the side of the toaster; I'm dirty, and my hair is sticking up on all ends. I lift my arm up and sniff myself, nearly gagging. Steve's right, I do stink. Since my last shower I've broken into a convenience store, raided a house, gotten shot at, went to jail, and travelled over 150 miles to get here. All while being knee deep in the drink, too.

The shower is small, and the water pressure is shit, and it gets cold after three minutes, but it's still loads better than the showers at the girls' home, so I take my time scrubbing the dirt off of my skin and out of my hair until the only bad smell comes from my breath. I fish through my bag for a change of clothes, throwing the ones from my journey into Steve's washer and using extra detergent. By now, it's nearly three, meaning I've still got a couple of hours to kill before Steve gets home. I consider stopping by the high school, but I can't bring myself to ignore the voice telling me I shouldn't. I've got a couple weeks until the court date anyway — I know I can't avoid everyone forever. I just have to remind myself that I'm not staying here. I can't let myself get reattached. I'm not ready to see them yet, not until it's unavoidable.

I decide to just start walking and see where I end up, unable to stay in Steve's stuffy apartment for much longer. I leave through his window, my hair still slightly wet and my head still pounding. I know it'll be that way until I have something to drink, but I have to try to hold off until I really can't. I try to use my limited sources as an excuse not to open another bottle, but my head debunks my argument without my permission: I can always steal more if I need to.

I push my mind away from it as I walk down the streets of Hawkins, my feet moving without me having to direct them. It's colder in Cincinnati, but I don't shed the old, heavy leather jacket that some girl left behind when she found a new home. It's so run down that the bottoms of the sleeves are a faded brown, meaning it looks less badass and more second-hand, but it's warm, and has lots of pockets for flasks and what have you. I've got a dull, ripped flannel on underneath, and then a faded Rambo t-shirt that isn't even mine, although I'm not quite sure whose it is; oftentimes, a communal pile of clothing will gather on one of the empty beds at the home, and it's all more or less free game. I've traded my old pair of jeans for another — nearly identical — old pair of jeans, and I wear the same trashy converse I always do.

I'm passing the Fire Station when I hear a questioning voice laced with poorly smothered shock.

"Liz?"

I glance sideways, cursing myself internally before plastering on a pleasantly surprised face.

"Hi, Mrs Wheeler," I say through a grit-teethed smile, and she eyes my appearance as if unsure it's really me. Her eyes linger on my damp, dark hair and my filthy jacket before plastering on just as fake a smile as me.