C a t h e r i n e A u s t e n
168
Advance Reading Copy
scratches and scars from the kid, bold blocks and squiggles
from the woman. I jog on the spot beside them. “That’s
glorious,” I say. “You should color the whole world like that.”
She smiles at me, sincere and well-wishing, and offers me
pink and yellow chalk. “Draw something in front of your
house.” She has no idea they’re going to zombify her kid once
he gets to preschool, no idea she’ll want them to. I leave them
to their rainbows.
I end up at Pepper’s house. I draw a pink heart on the
concrete slab in front of her door. I write my initials inside
it with a plus sign and a question mark. Then I ring the bell.
There’s no answer.
I drop the yellow chalk in her mailbox and pretend she
might fill in her own initials. There’s a jingle in the box when
the chalk hits bottom. My fingers find two keys on a metal
wire. I close my fist around them.
For the sake of the camera, I ring the bell again. I wait for
an answer that doesn’t come, then reach into my pocket and
whip out the keys like they were there all along. I hurry inside
and shut the door.
I don’t call Pepper’s name because I know she’s not here.
I can tell by the smell and the static air. This is an empty house.
I tell myself I’ll just get a drink of water and leave, but
even as I’m thinking the words I know I’m going to search
every inch of the place.
Even though it’s on two floors, Pepper’s house is almost
as small as our apartment. There’s a living room, kitchen
and bathroom downstairs, two bedrooms and a utility
room upstairs. There’s not much to explore—no clothes on
the drying rack, no dishes in the sink. A few dresses hang
