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Back Any Way the Wind Blows Save as PDF
Chapters (100)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. EPILOGUE
  96. AGATHA
  97. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  98. Also by Rainbow Rowell
  99. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  100. Newsletter Sign-up

“We’ll have to move the sofa out of the way … How big was the door you drew the first time?”

“We can’t do this, Penelope. We aren’t ready for this.”

“I’m ready,” she says. “We’ve got everything we need—milk, soil, ashes…” She looks at the empty teacup and squeezes my hand. “Blood.”

“But we don’t have a plan.”

“I have a plan.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

She tilts her head up at me—“No”—then looks down at my hand—“Can you bleed faster?”

56

BAZ

I helped Simon pick out a sofa today.

One minute, we were eating toast in his bed, and he was wiping his hands on my pyjama bottoms, and I was wiping my hands on his pillow—and the next, he was practically daring me to go to Ikea with him. (He’d been in a such a desolate mood last night, after visiting Ebb’s grave; I was relieved to see him so cheerful.)

He purchased: A navy-blue sofa. Four plates, four mugs, cutlery. Two sets of towels. Two pillows. A duvet. And two sets of bedding—one with thick purple stripes and one with giant green apples. (Who knew Snow was whimsical?)

“You should choose one set, Baz.”

“They’re your sheets, Snow.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to be sleeping on them.”

(I would sleep on a bed of straw to be close to him. I’d sleep in the back of a truck.)

He found a kitchen table he liked, then got kind of overwhelmed looking at chairs. “I need everything,” he said. “This is going to take all day.”

“We can come back,” I said. “Ikea isn’t going anywhere.”

We ate lunch in their cafeteria, and Simon spent half his inheritance on Swedish meatballs and Daim cake.

He was wearing another Watford hoodie to cover his wings. One that he hasn’t yet sliced to ribbons. I could tell he was overheated. (I don’t know what the short-term solution for this is—a silk shawl? A lightweight poncho?) I noticed a few people noticing the hump on his back. But none of them seemed to think he was hiding anything.

We held hands the whole day. At lunch, he sat with his arm resting on the back of my chair. “If you can’t be gay at Ikea,” Snow reasoned, “where can you?”

Was this the best day of my life?

I’m nearly certain.

It was so good that I haven’t come down yet, even sitting here in another one of Smith-Richards’s meetings, this time in the very front row. Smith-Richards sent Simon a text this afternoon, making sure we’d be here—making sure Simon would be here. As if he’d miss it.