Outlaws - Yolanda Olson Page 0,1

because she takes care of me. More often than not, it’s scraps from her table, but she does what she can and always makes sure that she has just enough to fill my belly for the few hours we manage to spend together.

I clear my throat as her small home, identical to every other fucking one here besides Tallulah’s and the Abbas’, forms a sturdy outline against the evening landscape. But even in the darkness, there’s a light to Sylvie’s home that doesn’t shine anywhere else, and it’s the only place I feel safe. I’m allowed to be myself there, and she’s always happy for the company.

I rub my hands together, bring them to my lips, and blow my breath into them in an attempt to warm them as I make my way down the side of her home, toward the back door. There are too many eyes and ears here, and if anyone were to see me walking through her front door, I’d finally have the audience I’ve been trying to get with her father, but not in the way I would want.

Once I reach the back door, I knock three times in rapid succession, then once more five seconds later. It’s a code we worked out so that she would know it’s me and not get in trouble for allowing a stray, so to speak, into her home.

I wait patiently as I hear the sound of her footsteps rushing through the house, and when Sylvie pulls the door open, I grin when she reaches a hand out, then yanks me inside.

“Steady,” I remind her gently with a quiet laugh.

“I’m sorry, Kester,” she replies sheepishly.

I shake my head to let her know that it’s okay.

The problem with only hearing whispers mostly is the lack of balance. I don’t have vertigo, but if I’m moved too quickly without warning, I could easily collapse.

And I think that’s more troublesome than trying to make out what people say to me for the most part. I have control of one thing, but not the other yet. Although I am working on taking back myself one step at a time, it’s taking longer than I hoped it would.

Sylvie shoos me away from the back door, then moves around me to pull it closed and secure the lock in place. She’s always been so damn paranoid about us getting caught, and I don’t know why. Even her father doesn’t come out after dark.

She turns with a flustered smile on her face and ushers me toward the kitchenette. The aroma of the stew is enough to make my stomach growl. Sylvie has always been an amazing cook, and she’s very inventive. She never helps herself to the shop supplies like most people do. She only takes what she feels is fair, and I’ve never seen her take more than one portion of meat at a time.

She’s so different from her father and sister that it’s almost jarring.

I shrug my jacket off and wrap it around the back of the chair she has set out for me, then wait patiently as she begins to scoop some of the freshly made stew into a small, wooden bowl. I sometimes find myself wondering why she’s so low on the totem pole in the Bennett family, but I’ve never asked.

I figure there are some things that shouldn’t be pursued, and I know that Sylvie would tell me if she wanted me to know.

“Thanks,” I say enthusiastically as I take the bowl from her hand and balance it on my lap. Her kitchenette area is too small for a table to fit into, so we make do with the space we have whenever she invites me over for a late supper.

I wait for Sylvie to fill a bowl of her own and sit in the chair across from me. I figure it’s good manners to wait for the cook, and even more so to let them take the first spoonful. She finds it odd; I think it’s a nice way to say thank you.

Once Sylvie’s settled, she dips her spoon into the hearty stew and places it in her mouth, quickly waving her hand in front of it. I chuckle; the steam alone rising from the bowl should have told her that it was okay to wait a little while, but she doesn’t hesitate when it comes to me eating. She’s told me over and over that if it’s the only meal I ever have on any given day, that I