The Casquette Girls (Book 1)

12. The Truth

October 12th

My fingers tapped the kitchen counter, waiting for the pot of water to boil. My eyes kept moving to the clock on the wall.

It wasn't even seven a.m. yet—residual effects of jet lag. Before the Storm, I'd certainly never gotten excited about waking up early for work, but now I was just eager for life to return to normal. My eagerness, however, was no match for my muscles, every inch of which was sore.

I groaned as I bent over to stretch. My legs immediately started to shake. "Thirty more seconds," I whispered and began to replay my afternoon with Ziggy Stardust to distract myself from the pain. I barely made it to the half-minute marker before my torso flung up. The head rush made the magic music box incident seem even more surreal. It wasn't just the keys, and the lightbulb, and the phonograph—everything was different now. And it all felt like a dream.

"There's a logical explanation for all of this. You just have to figure it out." I extended my arm across the counter toward the box of oatmeal and imagined it coming to my hand.

Nothing happened. I felt like a clown.

"Ugh, boil already!" I snapped at the pot.

The fire under the pot seemed to pulse bigger.

Maybe I am going crazy after all?

But then the water began to gently bubble, and I became more excited about breakfast. "Finally . . ."

When the oats formed a hot mush, I sprinkled cinnamon and sugar on top, wishing we had milk. I grabbed the nondairy creamer and then stopped myself. Too disgusting. Without looking, I reached for the cutlery drawer, but before I could grasp the handle, it shot open and crashed into my hip. My yelp faded as a spoon jumped out of the drawer and landed in my hand.

My heart felt like it was going to pound out of my chest. I unclenched my fingers from around the utensil, and it vibrated in my palm. On a whim, I popped the spoon into the air; it dove into my oatmeal and stirred in the auburn swirls. A smile slipped out as the scent of cinnamon danced around the kitchen, reminding me of what our home used to feel like.

Lived in.

***

Without air-conditioning, there was no discernible difference in the temperature when I walked out of my very own steaming bathroom. It was an odd feeling. My father usually kept the house freezing because it got so hot in his studio with all of his torches.

My phone told me there was zero cellular service at present. Lamenting the loss of the Internet, I pushed the plug of an old-school boom box into an electrical socket and was immediately assaulted by voices at varying levels of hysteria. I stopped twisting the dial when I heard a woman with a more grounded tone replying to the DJ.

"The real question is, why isn't anyone talking about the fact that people are still dying around here? Are we all really this desensitized to death? And what is Morgan Borges really doing about the crime? The mayor's curfew doesn't seem to be helping anything; it's making the empty streets easy target zones for predators!"

Evidently, the early hour wasn't keeping people from going at it. I sat at the vanity and attempted to put moisturizer around the scabbing on my face, but I was already beginning to sweat. Don't even think of complaining about the lack of air-conditioning. At least you have a home, unlike Brooke's family.

"Thanks for calling in, ma'am. Do we have our next caller on the line?"

"Hello? Hello? Am I on the air?"