Tim, a garbage handler in a post-apocalyptic bunker, loses the little he has. But then he finds Amy, the redhead with an attitude. Together, they will try to change the world they live in.
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Tim is one of those who shovel the shit and clean away th...
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The bishop's gaze probed me through the openings in the wall panel. There was just no way he could not see us.
Then he rubbed his puffy cheeks with the palms of his hands and turned his head back at the manual before him.
He picked it up and frowned. Using the cloth of his sleeve, he wiped the paper.
I looked over at Amy, but she ignored me, her gaze on the man at the altar. I wondered if she was even aware of the booger traces she had left in the book.
The bishop placed the manual back on the table, closed his eyes, folded his fingers upon each other, and prayed.
I didn't hear the words—they were no more than a murmured ripple of syllables. But the familiarity of their melody soothed my mind. Tired relief replaced the tension in my muscles.
As the prayer went on and on, I leaned back, blessing the good fortune granting us a stack of pillows in our hideaway.
Amy nudged me. When I looked at her, she held up her hand, closing and opening her fingers against her thumb like a mouth blabbering.
It wasn't right to make fun of someone's prayer, let alone the bishop's, but I still had to smile. She grinned.
A pretty smile, despite that dark gap in the center of her teeth.
Or in particular because of that gap.
Amy settled into the pillows. She yawned, squinting her eyes closed and opening them again. I realized that I didn't know their color—the weak light here lacked the strength to reveal it. The meaning of her gesture was clear, though. We hadn't slept much last night.
And the only thing we could do was wait.
The bishop's voice droned on and on, and I sank into its steady flow.
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Words woke me—not the dull, soft rumble of the bishop's prayer, but syllables of a much harsher, throaty nature. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to make sense of the world around me.
I was still hidden behind the wall panel, and Amy was stirring at my side.
She opened her eyes. They were brown.
The light had more strength now, slanting through the carved openings with the resolve of a day started.
At the altar, the bishop was talking to a visitor wearing a blue ribbon around his waist—captain Wolfe.
