Human Error

BOOK 2 // SIX: Finders Keepers

"Aha," Art said. "Exhibit A."

"Is that...?"

He popped off the lid, and when I saw the deep red colour underneath, I was proved right. "Lipstick," he finished for me. "Just hidden here, out of sight."

I didn't even know what to say. It was such a strange thing to see, so out of place here where appearances were the last thing that mattered. With the only mirrors being the cracked ones in the communal showers, I only saw my reflection once a day. Since being here, I'd barely spared a thought for what my face looked like. There were more important things on my mind.

He held it out, and I paused, not sure whether he was joking. "For you?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Fifty-year-old lipstick," I said sceptically. "Now that sounds like the most unsanitary thing I've ever heard."

"Really? You couldn't just call it vintage?" He held it up closer to his face, wrinkling his nose as he inspected the item close up. "Maybe you're right – I'm pretty sure that's mould. But I'm kind of impressed it's still intact. Not to mention it proved me right."

"I think it only counts if you find something useful."

"You could make use of it," he argued. "I mean, there's the risk of some hideous infection, but our immune systems are supposed to be able to handle that, right?"

I turned up my nose. "I'm not about to test it out."

He laughed, tossing the silver tube back where it had come from. It felt strange to see someone litter – New London had been pristine, due to strict environmental rules – but with so much already around us, it hardly made a difference. We were only restoring the natural order.

As we trekked on, I had to give it to Art: he was definitely onto something. Though most of the stuff nestled between branches and covered in dirt was rubbish, the process of seeking it out was actually pretty entertaining. So far away from everything, it didn't feel like we were in Birmingham at all. Alone, away from Nova, Jace, and everything that reminded me of all I'd lost, I could almost pretend we were anywhere.

It was easy to lose track of time, and I didn't know how long we'd been out. I just knew that it was long enough for the tension to leave my body, putting the spring back in my step and the laughter back in my voice. Art was easy to like, easy to be around. It was refreshing.

"Hey, look at this!"

I followed his voice up ahead, and when I got close enough, saw the reason for his exclamation: an old, battered football that he passed from foot to foot before kicking up and catching with both hands.

"No way," I said.

"Whoa, does this take me back to being a kid, or what." He caught my eye, and after a wordless exchange, I anticipated the throw in my direction. Coordination had never been my strong point, but I managed a clumsy catch. I squeezed, feeling it deflate slightly between my fingers.

"You played football?" I asked.

"Kind of," he said. "Not seriously. Used to kick one about with my dad on the weekends, and it was always good fun."

He gestured for me to kick it back. It was a simple enough request, but I paused – and he picked up on my reluctance.

"Come on," he said. "It's not that hard."

I let the ball drop to the ground, resting in front of my feet. It really shouldn't have been such a difficult ask, but I was suddenly overcome by self-consciousness, rendered rigid by the knowledge that I was about to embarrass myself. Taking a deep breath, I drew my foot back and took aim.