What a terrible liar I am.

Chapter Seven

The next day there’s three unopened aluminum cans in a small pyramid on our porch. I squat down and examine the rippled cylinders. The labels are long gone, but the cans are in good shape, no dents or weird bulges. Food from another time. I wonder how long ago these were made. I’m about to chuck them in the trash when Ethan appears behind me. He looks longingly at the cans.

“Those can’t be poisoned, right?”

I shrug. “Maybe there’s poison on the outside of the cans.”

He disappears, returns with Mom’s rusty tongs. “There,” he says, picking one up. “Now we can’t get sick.” He smiles at me. “Let’s eat.”

His feet thud smack on the wood floor as he runs into the kitchen. I hear him open drawers and digging out utensils. I stand on the porch and stare down the road. There’s no motorcycle, no sign that Clay is lurking around. Something glints in the distance behind a large pile of rocks. Is he watching us? I stare in that direction for several minutes until Ethan calls from the kitchen that the food’s done. The smell that trickles past my nose is enticing, but I can’t stand the thought of eating something Clay’s brought us. On the other hand, what choice do I have? My snares haven’t caught anything, and the canned goods in the cellar won’t last more than a week. We either eat Clay’s offering, or we starve.

I sit at the table with Ethan and spoon manufactured chicken noodle soup in my mouth. The soup is thick and savory and I can’t help but enjoy it a little. As I roll the slippery noodles around on my tongue, I think about Clay and what he’s playing at. Why would he want us to trust him? If he wanted to capture us, he could pull up with a band of armed men. What could he gain from being kind? Maybe he just likes torturing his prey before he pounces and bites their heads off.

The next day, there’s a homemade apple pie sitting on the porch. Ethan watches me with desperate eyes as I cradle the pie and bring it to the table. We hover around it and stare at the sugary apples peaking out through the slats of toasted crust. My stomach somersaults.

“Please don’t throw it away.” Ethan tugs on my elbow.

Though I’m desperate for the taste of that pie in my mouth, my pride can’t allow it. I push the tin towards Ethan. “Eat it all.” I leave before I can change my mind.

I head to our bedroom and pull on my coveralls, long-sleeved t-shirt and boots. I gotta do something other than sit and sulk at my inability to provide. At Clay’s ability to do it so easily.

“Hey, pie face,” I yell. “Let’s go check some snares so we don’t have to depend on treats from terrorists.”

Ethan meanders in, smelling of baked goods. The wide smile on his crumb-covered face deepens the hurt mounting in my gut. Clay brought him that happiness.