Page 19 - My FlipBook

T R A I L O F C R U M B S

standing just behind it—in eight years, Dictator Patty had
never, ever lost a battle.
Greta hardly slept. With every creak, she pictured Roger
and Patty sneaking out, dragging luggage behind them. Once
she even crept from bed and flung the door open, only to
find a dark, empty hallway. Then she noticed the noise was
coming from above, their landlord walking across the floor of
the upstairs suite. She stood with her head against Ash’s door,

not sure if she should wake him. A draft moved over her legs,
as if a window was open somewhere. Was she overreacting?
Had she misunderstood? She crawled back under the blankets,
waiting for her alarm.
When morning came—still black in January—Greta
listened for the clatter of Roger and Patty in the kitchen. She
could piece together their conversation by Patty’s voice alone,

clear above any kitchen appliance, including the blender.
Nothing about leaving.
She waited until she heard Ash’s door open. “Ash,” Greta
hissed as he headed for the bathroom. “Come here!”
He blinked, drowsy. “What?”
“Get in here.” She dragged him through her door and eased
it shut. While he stood there, his eyebrows pressed the wrong
way from sleeping, she told him what she’d heard the night
before. With every word, she felt more stupid. “What do you

think that means?” She looked away to avoid his deadpan stare.
Ash didn’t answer for a minute. Then, “Are you sure?”
“Well, yes. No. I think so,” she said. “I heard it. But does
it mean what I think it does?”

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