The Potentate - ON HOLD

II

We walk in silence, all knowing that it is best not to draw attention to ourselves. Ottie and Slate weave through the trees like the forest is their only home as I stumble over roots and rocks. I can tell Ottie is just dying to comment on my ineptitude, and for once I am grateful for the quiet. At least it saves me some embarassment.

I try my best to focus on the task ahead of me. I mentally review my unofficial script ("Hello, help, please, somebody!") and consider every possible scenario and how I would react. If someone wakes up, I will burst into tears (and I won't even have to fake it). If they try to chase me, I will sprint to the left, where I know Slate and Ottie will be hiding, and maybe even scream. Anyone nearby will surely believe that I was attacked. If they catch me... I stop myself before I finish the thought. That cannot happen.

Once I exhaust the possibilities, my mind turns back to home. I remember hearing somewhere that "out of the mouths of babes, oft times come gems" and I wonder if there's any truth to it. What if Isaiah was right, and I should've stayed with him and Levi and Yaz? What if today is the one day I actually get caught?

It takes me five minutes to convince myself that I am being ridiculous. Isaiah is a five year old boy who probably has lingering abandonment issues from his parents. He is not a prophet. Prophets don't even exist. Besides, I am doing this for him, aren't I? He and his brother need food, and I am getting it for them the only way I know how.

"Wyn. Look at the house over there."

Slate's voice is rough and low. I turn to where he's looking and appraise my latest crime site. It is a small, beat-up shed, but it is still in better shape than our trailer. Smoke streams out of the chimney and dances into the night air. I can hear the murmuring of voices from inside and I feel my stomach sink. Robbing a family is always harder.

"Okay," I agree hoarsely, and Slate and Ottie disappear into a clump of trees to the left of the house after handing me a canvas bag, which I stuff into my pocket. I take a deep breath and step forward.

"Hello!" I yell, forcing my voice to sound hollow and broken. Coughs rack my body and I trip a few times for good measure. "Is- is anyone home? Please, please, if you're there - help me!"

Once I reach the door, I clumsily fall to my knees. Then I pound the weak wood with my fists, coughing every few moments as if I am using the last strength I have.

"Please," I start again, but suddenly I find myself flying forward. Someone's opened the door.

"Are you alright?" The voice I hear above me is soft, almost gentle. Forcing myself to tremble, I raise my eyes. I am huddled at the feet of an old man. He has kind blue eyes and thin white hair that starts about halfway up his head. Something about him reminds me of Old Yaz.

"Help," I rasp. He cocks his head and kneels to my eye-level.

"You poor thing," he murmurs softly, reaching out to stroke me head. I resist the urge to flinch away from his touch. "You must be starving."

"Yes," I agree, and it's not a lie. I can't remember the last time I had a real meal.

"Come on in." The man takes hold of my elbow and lifts me onto my feet. Slowly, he inches us into the house. I can't help but be impressed. The walls are knotty pine wood and the furniture, if old, is luxe. The couch and chairs are all made out of varying shades of leather and the kitchen counter is pure marble. It feels almost traitorious, but I can't help thinking that the trailer is nothing compared to this.

After I've absorbed every detail of the house, my eyes settle on the people in it. First I notice a girl maybe three years younger than I am. She is perched on top of the kitchen counter, and her green eyes follow my every move. Her blonde hair curls over her shoulders. I give her a small, timid smile. She wiggles her fingers in response.