Children of the Underground Read Online Free

the sun came up before daring to get out of bed. Even with the shades drawn, the sun burst through cracks in the windows and the walls. I heard birds. I heard the squawking of the seagulls first and then the singing of the songbirds in the trees outside our room. Michael was still lying frozen on the floor. Michael had slept on the floor in front of the motel room door without a blanket or pillow. He simply folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. I didn’t sleep. I had too much adrenaline pumping through my system. It had been a long time since I’d been that close to death. I had a feeling that I should start getting used it again.
    I climbed out of bed as quietly as I could and walked into the bathroom. I wanted to wash my face and brush my teeth. I wanted to look at myself in the mirror. The mirror hadn’t been my friend for some time. I almost didn’t recognize the woman in the glass. She looked tired, sad, and lost. I ran water, as cold as I could get it, and splashed some on my face. I took out the soap and scrubbed my hands clean. I used the same soap to wash my face. I brushed my teeth. I felt better. I felt slightly cleansed. A thousand more days and maybe I could feel clean.
    I opened the bathroom door and walked back toward the bed. My eyes darted to the spot on the floor in front of the door. It was empty. Michael was gone. My heart dropped in my chest. I lifted my eyes. The chain lock still hung between the door and the wall. The windows. I turned and looked toward the windows to see if any were open.
    â€œI’m still here,” a voice echoed from the corner of the room. I turned and looked. Michael was sitting in a chair along the back wall. “I haven’t gone anywhere yet.” He was sunk low in the chair, with one foot resting on the chair’s armrest. The light shining in through the blinds drew shadows on his face. I wanted to finally say something to him, but the words failed me again. Michael took his foot off the armrest and leaned forward in his chair, placing his elbows on his knees. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
    â€œI’m Joe’s girlfriend,” I repeated, as if that answered his question.
    â€œI know. I recognized you from your picture.”
    â€œWhat picture?” I asked, confused.
    â€œIn Joe’s file,” Michael answered. “When you and Joe went on the run, they sent his file out to everyone—his friends, his enemies, everyone.” I knew about the file. I’d seen it on the kid that your father shot in Ohio. I remember how surreal it was when I saw my own picture in it. “I remember looking through the file, trying to figure out why Joe ran. I read your bio. I saw your picture.” Michael looked up at me. “You look different.” He paused. “You look older.” His voice was somber, not like I expected.
    â€œI am older,” I told him. “Is that when you left the War, when you got Joe’s file?” I asked.
    â€œI haven’t left the War,” Michael answered with a liar’s smile. He looked at his hands. They were still stained with blood. “I just stopped taking orders.” I wondered if he’d gotten blood in his hair while he slept with his head in his hands. I went into the bathroom and got a wet washcloth. I handed it to Michael. He started rubbing the blood off his hands. The washcloth turned a dark pink. “But yeah”—Michael nodded now—“that’s when I stopped taking orders.”
    â€œDid they send a file out on you too?” I asked. “Is that how those people last night found you?”
    â€œNo,” Michael replied. “I haven’t been cut loose. They just aren’t protecting me anymore.”
    â€œSo who were those guys?” I asked.
    â€œWord’s gotten out that I’m holed up on this island.” Michael finished scrubbing his hands and placed the blood-soaked washcloth