53. Hope

“We can fight later,” Cal had murmured before he fell back asleep.

He was so infuriatingly right. We repeated the same arguments. Cal’s vicious need to spill blood versus my refusal to be part of it.

We were at a stalemate but at the same time agreed on other things.

Together we took action. Roughly searching through my fathers possessions I found paper and pens. Writing, “SEND REAL FOOD,” I slid it under the locked door. We even hi-fived as I flopped back into the bed alongside him.

Together this bedroom has formed a strange mini-world, just the two of us. Sleeping, arguing, silently holding each other on repeat. When the scent of freshly cooked steaks, potatoes and vegetables wafts into the room Cal chuckles at how quickly I fly into getting the broken knife blade out of the door.

“You’re doing that quicker than when I was trapped in here,” he pointed out sarcastically.

“You…are not a steak,” I remind him tartly, on my knees fiddling with the lock. “Should have asked for panca