Hope's Ruin

12 | Remanufactured

Marshall had covered the sofa in sheets and soft blankets when they returned. Two plump pillows lingered at one end invitingly.

"It's a bit lumpy in the middle," Marshall smiled. "But if you're as tired as you look, then you won't feel a thing."

Erin pinched his arm. "Honestly."

They scuttled out of the room, leaving Pepper to dive between the blankets and sink her head into the pillows. Nights on the quad bike and days spent sleeping on shifting sand had left her bone tired. Her skin prickled with delight as her muscles relaxed.

Pepper closed her eyes and pictured Clyde. She tried to age him a few years. Add dirt and grease and toil to his face, his skin, his frame. Had she hiked with him across The Great Wastes? Shared frog spawn soup in the depths of Silver Hollow? Or perhaps traded gear with him at one of the outlets in Hope's Ruin?

Her memory served a blank.

Pepper twisted in the sheets.

So many had been lost in The Savage Storm.

And The Big Gulp.

So many dead.

Lost.

What were the chances Clyde had survived?

Slim. So very slim.

Hope felt like a pile of sand slowly slipping through her fingers.

Hope is an illusion.

She shook Lavigne's words away.

She had to hold on.

For all their sakes.

Pepper shivered, tucked the blankets tighter, allowing the kindness of Erin and Marshall, and the comfort and warmth of their farmhouse, to fill her aching heart.

* * *

Pepper had overslept. She could feel it. Light streamed through the patched window panes, casting distorted X's and T's and L's on the walls.

Beside her sat a steaming mug of tea.

Pepper instinctively cradled it in her hands and let the aroma intoxicate her. She placed her lips against the rim and allowed the hot drink to submerge her tongue. It tasted amazing. Pepper's entire body groaned with contentment.

She sat alone in the living room sipping her tea, slowly waking, and wondering what Erin and Marshall were up to. With curiosity getting the better of her, she carried her tea out of the living room, over the uneven cobbles, and through the yawning barn doors. Inside, it was warm and dry. The smell of engines and sun-baked wood invaded Pepper's nostrils.

Marshall sat in a tattered fabric armchair—blotted with swirling contemporary patterns which could easily have been flowers or water stains—reading a large encyclopaedia with burnt corners. Socks perched on the arm, legs tucked beneath like a sphinx.

"How's the tea?" he asked.

"Exquisite."

"We don't have a strainer so watch out for bits at the bottom," he said, smiling. "They'll get stuck in your teeth if you're not careful."

The sound of industry rolled across the barn from the scarecrow creation station. Pepper approached through spears of mid-afternoon sun to find Erin's beaming face in sharp focus. She looked fit to bursting.

Pepper giggled nervously. "What's going on?"

"I tried to change Twelve's head once," Erin said, melancholically.