Allice in Mysterious Land (ON HOLD)

7: Beat

Someone said, "Both Highlife and Lowlife will always be one wherever they go. Neither can pretend to be the other."

But judging by how Sandra calmly guides me to the spiral stairs, barely fazed by the static whirring on the treehouse's roof and the morning vibes from the windows, she can't be a Lowlife. These are too privileged. Lowlifes are used to modesty, and we rarely tolerate lamps that bright...

How can she pretend to be a Lowlife that long?

We barge through the door without knocking, our muddy shoes squishing against the wood-patterned floor. On the mattress at our left, Roy jerks awake, sending vibrant tufts down his forehead. There's a bruise on his cheekbone, which bubbles out when he scowls. "You're late."

"Complications." Sandra leaves me on the couch opposite of the door. Miro, tattered and soaked, sinks next to me. The lethal satchel lies near my feet, still emitting disturbing noises. "How long have you been here? And where did you get that bruise?" After bolting the door shut, Sandra grabs a first-aid kit from under the couch.

"A buffoon of a wall stood in my way." Roy scratches his head, glancing at the neon-red writing on the cream-colored ceiling. "I got here at six-thirty... twelve minutes ago."

A grin spreads on Miro's lips, knocking off drowsiness from his eyes. "What a funny clock."

Roy casts him a brotherly look. Or is it pity? "Let's look around." Lifting himself off the thick mattress, Roy approaches the wall opposite of his bed, shuffling past the higher bed next to him. Miro rushes down the couch to join him.

Do I have the nerve to tell him what happened to his mom, and wipe that excitement off?

I turn to Sandra, whose black eyes wear compassion. In her hands are rolls of bandages. Beezus—not again. Yesterday's wounds aren't healed yet. This should be my last time bonding with them.

Chemical scents stab deep into my nose. I respond to it with an untimely grumbling stomach, which is louder than Roy's demonstration of his in-wall drawers. While Highlifes can get the newest technology, Lowlifes should bear using the old ones. All the drawers at Auntie Morgan's flat are squeaky.

"We don't mean to offend you." Sandra applies pressure on my arm with a white cloth, which soon turns crimson. It's like a fanged jaw closed around that spot again. I bite down a yelp and curl my knuckles. "Sorry if we did. Roy must be trying to make him... comfortable, since you two should stay here for now."

"Because we're hunted?" The spreading shock sews my lips together. "Why do you help us?" As if it hasn't stung enough, she pours more liquid to my wound. It triggers yesterday's scars too; they're constantly prickling my skin.

"We just feel like it's the right thing to do." She sighs, as if blowing out a heavy burden. Again, another trait I never expect from a Highlife. Don't Highlifes always look cheerful, as if the world is theirs already?

"Helping me escape is... something right? I mean, those men... they work under Roy's dad, right? What will they tell him?"

"We're Highlifes, but Roy and I don't agree with their ways." She wraps a bandage around my arm with a distant look. "We don't fit in."

Miro is still testing the drawers, chuckling whenever Roy throws a joke. It's like they've forgotten how drained they are after the long day.

"Roy has been a rebel since his mom died eleven years ago." She reaches for my other injuries with cotton. "He comes home at night. Sometimes he only gathers some trinkets before returning here, adding something new to the treehouse or making a new tool. It's more of a formality, just so his dad won't arrange a useless search party. That way, he won't find this treehouse."