The Cure for Sleeping

Chapter Three

For me, at least, the run dissolves from a race into a kind of blind stumble. Noah's hand fingers are tight around mine, tugging me along like a paper doll. We catch up with Josh, his feet swallowing the pavement as if he runs for his life every day. They lead me, ducking around vacant lots and through bomb-collapsed apartments with the confidence of locals.

"Nice of you to catch up." Josh isn't even out of breath. "Thought that I was going to have to come back and save you."

"You know me, Josh. I like to cut it close." Noah's panting a little. That makes me like him more.

"Gotta keep the excitement up. Anything less and I would have to call you boring."

Noah huffs out a laugh, pulling me to his side so that I don't run into a parking meter.

I focus on breathing. Both of my would-be saviours are tall, and their long legs are a serious advantage right now. I will not throw up. It becomes a mantra with every step.

I. Will. Not. Throw. Up.

Finally, after what seems like hours of dodging piles of rubble and throwing off our pursuers, Noah draws to a halt. We're in the hallway of an apartment building, long and narrow. I remember stairs, and lots of them. The muscles in my calves remember, too, and remind me with an ache. I hate stairs.

Noah drops a bag at his feet and raps on a steel door. Three short, three long, two short. I snort. Secret knocks –why not? After a moment, a clatter sounds from inside, along with muffled cursing.

The door swings open. Framed in its light is the tiniest, angriest pixie I have ever seen.

"God, could you be any louder? Shut the door behind you." She snarls at Noah, spinning on her heel and stomping off into the apartment.

"Good to see you, too, Thea. No, we don't need any help with the bags. But thanks for the offer. You're so kind." Josh steps past Noah, breezing inside.

"Because you'd be such a sweetheart if you were stuck in here alone for the past eight hours. Asshole."

"Bitch. And Hazel was here with you the whole time."

"Hazel is a creepy-ass twelve-year old with an overexcited vocabulary. She doesn't count."

Noah shakes his head, his smile that of someone used to dealing with toddlers, and waves me inside.

The door shuts with a resounding click behind me. The apartment is in a better state than the one I stayed in last night –meaning that there's no blood on the walls, at least. The entrance opens up into a small studio, the kitchen the size of a broom closet. The walls are covered with some old, slightly moldy wallpaper, and there are piles of junk shoved into the corners of the room. The whole place smells musty, like a herd of dust bunnies have made the apartment their lair.

Thea throws herself onto the couch, sprawling like a cat. A cloud of dust blooms into the air. She bursts into a sneezing fit, ruining the queenly effect, and Noah laughs. Thea looks up, glaring, and notices me, tucked behind Noah. She grows deathly still.

"And who's this?" she asks in a soft voice that screams danger.

Josh coughs into his hand, covering a snort. Jumping up onto the kitchen counter, his feet swing like a bored kid.

"This is Avery." Noah says. He leads me inside by my arm, and my poor, abused legs follow him of their own accord. Glass digs into skin, caught in the fabric of my jeans.

Thea is silent, dark eyes drawn into slits. Noah takes his time settling me on the floor, pulling supplies out of the plastic bag dropped at his feet. Band-Aids, hand sanitiser, aspirin. He takes my torn hands in his.