Read Arena One: Slaverunners for Free Online Page B

mountaintop—and if this night isn’t cause to celebrate, then when is?
    I bring down the mason jar, unscrew it, reach in with my finger, and take out a big heaping. I place it on my tongue and let it sit in my mouth as long as I can before swallowing. It’s heavenly. I hold out the rest of the jar, still half-full, to Bree. “Go ahead,” I say, “finish it. There’s more in our new house.”
    Bree’s eyes open wide as she reaches out. “Are you sure?” she asks. “Shouldn’t we save it?”
    I shake my head. “It’s time to treat ourselves.”
    Bree doesn’t need much convincing. In moments, she eats it all, sparing just one more heaping for Sasha.
    We lie there, propped against the couch, our feet to the fire, and finally, I feel my body start to relax. Between the fish, the sap and the jam, finally, slowly, I feel my strength return. I look over at Bree, who’s already dozing off, Sasha’s head on her lap, and while she still looks sick, for the first time in a while I detect hope in her eyes.
    “I love you, Brooke,” she says softly.
    “I love you, too,” I answer.
    But by the time I look over, she is already fast asleep.
    *
    Bree lies on the couch opposite the fire, while I now sit in the chair beside her; it is a habit we’ve become accustomed to over the months. Every night before bed, she curls up on the couch, too scared to fall asleep alone in her room. I keep her company, waiting until she dozes off, after which I’ll carry her to bed. Most nights we don’t have the fire, and we just sit there anyway. Tonight, Bree wakes from her place on the floor and climbs immediately to the couch, awake, but still very sleepy.
    Bree always has nightmares. She didn’t use to: I remember a time, before the war, when she fell asleep so easily. In fact, I’d even tease her for this, call her “bedtime Bree” as she’d fall asleep in the car, on a couch, reading a book in a chair—anywhere. But now, it’s nothing like that; now, she’ll be up for hours, and when she does sleep, it’s restless. Most nights I hear her whimpers or screams through the thin walls. Who can blame her? With the horror we’ve seen, it’s amazing she hasn’t completely lost it. There are too many nights when I can barely sleep myself.
    The one thing that helps her is when I read to her. Luckily, when we escaped, Bree had the presence of mind to grab her favorite book. The Giving Tree . Every night, I read it to her. I know it by heart now, and when I am tired, sometimes I close my eyes and just recite it from memory. Luckily, it’s short.
    As I lean back in the chair, feeling sleepy myself, I turn back the worn cover and begin to read. Sasha lies on the couch beside Bree, ears up, and sometimes I wonder if she’s listening, too.
    “Once, there was a tree, and she loved a little boy. And every day the boy would come, and he would gather her leaves, and make them into crowns and play king of the forest.”
    I look over and see that Bree, on the couch, is fast asleep already. I’m relieved. Maybe it was the fire, or maybe the meal. Sleep is what she needs most now, to recover. I remove my new scarf, wrapped snugly around my neck, and gently drape it over her chest. Finally, her little body stops trembling.
    I put one final log on the fire, sit back in my chair, and turn, staring into the flames. I watch it slowly die and wish I’d carried more logs down. It’s just as well. It will be safer this way.
    A log crackles and pops as I settle back, feeling more relaxed than I have in years. Sometimes, after Bree falls asleep, I’ll pick up my own book and read for myself. I see it sitting there, on the floor: Lord of the F lies . It is the only book I have left and is so worn from use, it looks like it’s a hundred years old. It’s a strange experience, having only one book left in the world. It makes me realize how much I’d taken for granted, makes me pine for the days when there were libraries.
    Tonight I’m too excited