Page 17 of The Intruder

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

The wind feels even stronger than it did during my journey out to the shed. Worse, it’s coming from the opposite direction, so it feels like a giant hand is pushing against me, trying to keep me from making it back to the cabin. I can’t help but think it’s a bad sign. I glance back at the girl, who is hugging herself tightly as she follows me across the yard in a wholly inadequate coat. She is so scrawny, it looks like one giant gust could blow her away.

As we get closer to the cabin, I notice that tree is leaning even farther to one side. I can almost hear its roots groaning from the tension. It occurs to me that if the tree falls over, there’s a decent chance it might fall on the roof. And if that happens, it could kill us both.

I take quick stock of the situation: there is a violent storm raging outside, a tree is about to fall on my house, and I’ve invited a bloody girl with a switchblade to spend the night. All I need is to contract a flesh-eating virus, and my night will be complete.

I wrench open the door to the cabin and step back to let the girl enter before I do. She hesitates for a split second, then she scurries inside. And as I close the door behind us, I can’t push away the feeling that I have made a grave mistake by inviting her in.

14

BEFORE

ELLA

I need money.

I need money so I can buy school lunch. I need money so that I can lug my clothes over to the laundromat and get them clean. Unfortunately, my mother doesn’t give me an allowance. She says I won’t be responsible with it, whatever that means.

As I walk home from school, I stop off at the house at the end of my block. Mrs. Fleming lives there. She’s, like, a million years old, and in the past, she’s paid me for doing chores around her place, like washing dishes or taking out the garbage. I like cleaning things—it makes me feel better to make things tidy and organized. Anyway, maybe today she has something for me to do. I’ll take pretty much anything.

Mrs. Fleming has a ramp going to her front door, because like I said, she is super old. I walk up the ramp and knock on her door. She always takes forever to answer, but after a few minutes, I hear her shuffling footsteps behind the door. I knew she’d be home. She never leaves.

She opens the door, and as usual, she’s wearing a nightgown with a flimsy housecoat over it—I’ve never seen her wearing clothing that isn’t a nightgown. But her white hair is neatly combed. She is pretty skinny and only about as tall as I am, which is really tiny for an adult. I’m one of the shortest kids in my grade.

“Hi, Mrs. Fleming,” I say cheerfully. “I was wondering if you have any chores for me to do.”

She narrows her eyes at me for a moment; then finally, she nods. “You can take out the garbage for me.”

“I’ve raised my rates a little bit,” I tell her. “It’s three dollars now to take out the garbage.” As if this is some kind of business I’m running and other people besides her are willing to hire me.

Mrs. Fleming nods again and moves aside for me to come in. Her house is exactly the same layout as mine, but it looks completely different on the inside. Everything is very tidy, and her furniture is old, like they are antiques. She has an ancient-looking couch that definitely isn’t just two mattresses propped up together, but I don’t know if it’s that much more comfortable. Her whole house has this weird, sharp smell, kind of like mothballs. But it’s still better than the smoke in my house.

Mrs. Fleming tags along after me as I locate the garbage in her kitchen. It’s pretty full, and then she has a second bag next to it that she hasn’t taken out yet. I know it sounds weird, but I like throwing out the trash. It feels productive. And it’s nice to just be able to throw out the garbage without Mom coming over to me and giving me the third degree about what I’m tossing out because I can’t do it without her approval.

I swap out the trash bag for a brand-new one, and I even change the smaller wastebasket in her living room. Mrs. Fleming continues to follow me as I take the two garbage bags out of her house and put them in the bins.

“That will be three dollars,” I tell her as I wipe my hands on my jeans.

Mrs. Fleming purses her wrinkled lips. “I don’t think so.”

I frown, confused. Was there more garbage she wanted me to take out? “I don’t understand.”

“I think you got quite enough payment last time,” Mrs. Fleming says, “when you stole money from my purse.”

My mouth drops open. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me, young lady,” she snaps. “I saw you going through my purse, and then after you left, I noticed money missing.”

My heart sinks. “That’s not true, Mrs. Fleming. I would never steal from you.”

“Your mother told me about how you are always getting sent to the principal’s office.” She folds her bony arms across her chest, a look of satisfaction on her face as she relays my mother’s extremely unfair character assassination. “Not that she’s any better.”

So does this mean she’s not going to pay me? At all?

Great.

Mrs. Fleming wags her finger in my face. “I should call the Board of Health about the two of you. Get you both kicked out.”