Mya

The sky overhead is endless, stretching in every direction, an ocean of gentle shades of white and blue. The clouds spread more like butter than cotton, scattered with no obvious pattern or logic.

It drives me crazy.

Dew beads on the grass under us, wetting the legs of our pants, pressing through the thin blanket we've spread over the ground.

Finn lays down, hands behind his head and earbuds hanging halfway out of his ears. He stares unfocused overhead, blinking sleepily.

"Stop staring at me," he mumbles, plucking one of the earbuds out of his ear.

"I wasn't," I reply, pushing my auburn hair away from my face. "I'm hungry."

"It isn't lunch time yet, is it?"

I glance back at the house, to the analog clock hanging on the side of the building. Eleven-thirty.

"No."

He nods, sitting up on his elbows. With a yawn, he pulls the other earbud out, pausing the podcast he was listening to.

"What are you studying today?" he asks, putting his tablet down in his lap.

"If you call falling asleep while listening to someone talk studying, American History."

"What era?"

I glance at the tablet I've paused.

"Cold War."

Finn nods, squinting at me.

"Boring," he says in a sing-song voice, taking my tablet from me. "I'm listening to a man named Peter lecture me on the fundamentals of geometry and its applications in the real world."

He forms a gun with his hand, pointing it at his chin. When he moves his thumb, his eyes roll back in his head, and he falls back down to the ground. I laugh, rolling my eyes.

"I'll trade," I say, "at least there's some sort of pattern to geometry. There's literally no logic in history. It reminds me of when we used to argue as children, except these grown men have nuclear weapons."

Finn snorts, stretching his elbows.

The sound of brakes squealing fills the air between us, making his eyes go wide.

Our home is surrounded by endless woods, far enough away from roads that no one can see us. It works both ways. We never hear or see vehicles either.

"Is that-?"

"Mom." Finn finished my sentence, pushing himself up off the ground and scrambling towards the door on all fours.

If she catches us outside, we're in for a lecture that pushes the podcasts to the top of our 'Rather Do' lists.

I grab our stuff, ducking back inside right as the heavy deadbolt on the front door turns.

"The blanket," Finn hisses, snatching the tablets from me and sprinting for the study. I glance down at the sopping wet blanket, panic swelling in my chest. Heart pounding in my ears, I shove the blanket under the single couch, counting the seconds until the second lock turns, followed by the knob.

"Oh, Mya."

Mom's face lights up as she sees me, poised with one hand on the arm of the couch and the other rubbing circles on my leg as I awkwardly dig for my pocket.

Except, these pants don't have pockets.

Crap.

"Hi, Mom," I say, painting a beaming smile on my face. She brings her wrist up to her face, checking the time.

"Aren't you supposed to be studying right now?"

"Yeah, but I, um, got hungry."

"So, you went to the living room for food?"

My eyes fall to the floor, searching for anywhere to look but at her. She laughs, crossing the room in three giant steps, squeezing my arm.

"I won't ask anymore questions," she says, a smile forming crow's feet in the corner of her eyes, "but, Mya, I can see the water on your feet. Were you aware that you also tracked in leaves?"

I grimace, unable to look at the trail behind me.

"Where's Finn?"

"Sadly, not dead, as bored as he might be."

Finn comes around the corner, scooting his feet across the carpet of the living room in an attempt to dry them. Mom rolls her eyes at him, moving into the kitchen. I notice now that she's carrying a cardboard box under one arm.

"What's that?" I ask, taking a seat at the table. Finn follows, furrowing his eyebrows.

"New books. You've read just about everything in the library-"

"Not by choice," Finn mutters under his breath, warranting yet another eyeroll from Mom.

"And I thought you might want something different," Mom finishes, setting the box down on the table. The flimsy wood shakes as she does so, threatening to buckle under the extra weight.

Finn lifts one flap of the box with a lazy finger, gazing into the box.

"Thanks, Mom," I say, and she nods, feeling around in her pockets.

"Well, I came to get some work done. If you need me, I'll be upstairs."

"'Kay," we say together, and I watch her walk down the short hallway towards the door at the end. The lab door.

Our house has two stories, one upstairs and one ground floor. Here on the first floor, there's six rooms: the kitchen and living room, which is really one open area, the study, our bedroom, the bathroom, the physical activity room, and the spare bedroom. Mom used to sleep in the spare room, but now it's just empty.

Upstairs, though, is where the nightmares happen.

Mom works in her lab upstairs, blending together different chemicals in an attempt to find a vaccine for the virus. The door leading to that floor is always locked by a key that Mom keeps on her person at all times.

We're only allowed up there on Mondays.

"Hey," Finn says, flicking my shoulder. "Make me some lunch."

I whip my head around, glaring at him but stand up, moving towards the kitchen.

We eat lunch quickly, excitement building through the room.

Our next hour is physical activity time, something we look forward to everyday.

Finn eats in silence, one eye on the clock at all times, tapping his fingers on the table. When he's done, he shuffles through the new books, scoffing at them. I clean up after lunch, leaning on the counter, picking the crumbs of leaves off my pants.

"Finn," I say, watching the clock flash. Twelve fifty-nine.

"Hm?"

"It's time."

A smile spreads across his face, bringing out the thumb sized dimples cratering each of his cheeks. The small gap between his two front teeth shows, and his eyes lock on mine.

"I'll win today!" he screams, pushing his chair back as he jumps up, bolting towards the PA room. His chair clatters to the floor, joined by the book he was holding in his hand. I scowl at the both of them.

I'm tired of cleaning up after him.

So, I don't, instead stepping over them and following Finn.

"It's basketball today," he says, tossing the orange ball towards me when I step into the door.

"Why?"

"Because I want to win," he says, "and basketball is a game of height."

"And speed."

"Yeah, well, I'm taller and faster than you."

"That last one's debatable."

He makes a face at me, pulling his shirt off with one hand and tossing it across the room.

"Seriously? Why can't you be less messy? How hard would it have been to fold that shirt?"

"Infinitesimally hard," he answers, waggling his eyebrows at me.

"Don't use big words when you don't know what they mean."

"I saw it in a bowl of alphabet soup- Now, stop talking, and let's play."

The room itself isn't quite big enough for basketball, but we make it work, playing off the walls, door, floor, and ceiling, making use of every space inch of surface. The floor is hardwood; Mom's mounted a basketball goal on the wall. In one corner, two folded up manual treadmills sit, as well as a mesh bag of different balls and exercise equipment.

While Finn is taller, stronger, and wider than me, I'm smarter. He plays with sheer emotion, muscling his way into winning by shoving me out of the way countless times and holding the ball over my head. I spend most of the game by swiping the ball out of his hand from behind him and then chasing after it as I run from him.

Finally, though, the ball lands in my hands, and Finn bends double to catch his breath.

"Don't do it," he warns, eyes darting between me and the hoop.

"Why not?" I ask, positioning myself to shoot.

"Seriously, Mya. There's no way I'm letting you get a single point. This is my game."

"What're you going to do?"

"Don't."

His voice reaches a record low, and he glares at me through his caterpillar eyebrows. I smirk, shooting for the hoop. Finn sprints across the room, tackling both of my legs. The ball hits its mark, only grazing the netting as it falls through the hoop.

Finn slams me into the ground just as the basketball hits the floor. My head slams into the floor with a thump, bouncing once before it settles. My vision blurs in front of me, and I clench my eyes shut, biting back tears.

"Mya? You alright?"

Finn's voice comes from far away, like he's yelling through a tunnel. I shake my head, taking a gasping breath as the movement makes the pain worse.

"Oh, God. You're bleeding," he says, and a weight lifts off me. His heavy footsteps tell me he's leaving the room, but his retching means he's getting sick at the same time.

I lift a shaking hand towards my head, placing my fingertips against the source of the pain. They come back moist, smeared with red.

Discussion Question: Why did I take the time to mention the Cold War? Why is that detail so important? Think about it for a minute.