The Swailing

ECCO: Entrance

The guy we are staying with – Finn's friend Jordan – is dry and relatively humorless. Although he seems incredibly smart, he doesn't have much charm or bedside manner. But despite his cool demeanor, he doesn't seem to mind us showing up at his door unannounced, and he lets us in without question.

Although I insist again that I am fine, Finn has Jordan take a look at my head anyway. He cleans the cut for me and puts a small bandage on it. He shines a battery-operated torch in my eyes and asks me some questions and determines that I might have a slight concussion. He tells Finn to wake me up a few times during the night to check on me.

I'm not worried – I feel fine. What concerns me most at the moment is how cold I am.

Jordan's apartment is freezing – he explains that the heat is monitored by the landlord, who is guided by city regulations on the amount of therms allowed per person. Finn tells me that New York, even more than the rest of ECCO, is practically socialist, though no one uses that word. The resources of the region are divided up among the population and everyone gets a relatively equal share – or at least some kind of share. Everyone is assured health care, a place to stay, a basic amount of food. Residents are taxed heavily to fund this system and it's difficult for anyone to save up money to get more than the minimum of anything. So on a cold day like today, there are not people cozy in their penthouses while homeless people huddle in the street, like there were in Aon. Here, everyone has a place to stay, but everyone is equally chilled to the bone.

Compared to Sabine's, Jordan's apartment is sparsely furnished, more bare – more like home. Of course, anything would be bare and sparse compared to Sabine's. It's not just sparse, though ... it's also kind of drab and sloppy. Jordan folds down a simple couch into a bed – he calls it a futon – and I realize Finn and I will be sleeping together again. Not that I'm complaining, really. I got sort of used to it in the South – the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body just inches away from mine. Jordan digs up a blanket, the only extra one he has. I think about Optima and how we would be the same way. We wouldn't have extra bedrooms, extra blankets, extra food for guests.

So Finn and I shiver next to each other in the underheated apartment, with a tiny strip of futon cushion between us. The blanket is pitifully thin and after an hour or so Finn sighs loudly.

"Em, come here. I'm freezing."

At first I'm not sure what he's asking, but then he lifts the flimsy blanket in invitation and I realize he wants me to move closer, so that our body heat will combine to keep us both warmer.

I've never been in this situation before – where a boy wants to be closer to me. Cuddling in a bed with me, voluntarily, even if it is just to share my body heat. But just like with my attempts to try alcohol, now that I have opportunity I'm not sure what to do with it. I feel unsure and hesitant.

But I am freezing, so I scoot closer and immediately feel the warmth of Finn's body. We are both fully dressed in the heaviest clothes we have – I even have Aspen's winter coat on – so there is nothing inappropriate about this cuddling, no bare skin touching. But I feel the spark in my belly growing just the same. His clean smell and his heat and his arms wrapped around me, pulling the length of my body against his, kindle my spark into a steady flame. I feel my breathing becoming shallower, my heartbeat faster.

He pulls away from me slightly and looks at my forehead again, brushing it gently with his thumb.

"Sorry about this," he says quietly.

I can barely breathe much less speak. "I'm fine," I choke out.

And then he must have a desire to spontaneously combust me into a pile of ashes because he gently presses his lips against the forming bruise, and then tucks my head protectively against his shoulder.

Good gravy he's trying to kill me.

Then my feet accidentally touch his and he chuckles.

"I can feel your cold feet through your socks. Through MY socks!"

"I know!" I say. "It's not funny!"

"It's a little funny," he says. To retaliate, I tuck my feet between his calves, trying to warm them up.

We lie there together for a while, neither of us speaking. His breathing is steady, but not as slow as his sleep breathing, which I'm starting to know well by now. I wonder if he can tell that I can barely catch my breath at all.

As tired as I am, this closeness makes it impossible for my mind to relax. Every step of this journey opens another can of worms, leads to another set of questions.

Finally I find a way to voice the thoughts that have been haunting me since we left Malkut.

"Finn, what if my mom really is dead?"

He doesn't answer right away, taking time in his typical way to put his thoughts together before speaking. If he had said the same thing to me, I would have fallen over myself to reassure him that I'm sure she's alive and well. But he just says, "Then at least you'll know."

At least I'll know.

His arms tighten around me just slightly and surprisingly my heart rate slows, my belly flames die down, and I start to feel sleepy. And safe. And warm.

At least I'll know.