Free Monkey Island by Paula Fox

Buddy went ahead to make sure the streets around it were empty. “Stump people gone,” he said when he returned. But as they passed the park, they kept across the street from it, close to the buildings.
    It was as silent as a cemetery. The streetlight fell on empty benches. Buddy and Clay crossed over and went slowly down the path by the fountain. Clothing, rags, and one rusted eggbeater hung from a tree behind the crate, which was now a low tent-shaped pile of wood. From another tree hung one boot by its laces and Clay’s corduroy jacket tied by its sleeves. The straight-backed chair was smashed.
    â€œSee? They tried to start a fire in our pail, but it didn’t catch,” Buddy said, pointing at the pail. “They don’t concentrate so good, those people.”
    â€œMy jacket is on the tree,” Clay said.
    â€œCalvin told you to wear all your clothes all the time,” Buddy said.
    â€œIt got too tight, anyhow,” Clay responded.
    Buddy went to the tree, jumped up, and pulled the jacket down. The knot had been loose, and the two sleeves waved lazily as the jacket fell. “Never mind tight,” Buddy said. “You might need it later.”
    He said they would go and try the basement windows of the church where they had been given Thanksgiving dinner. The doors would be locked. Everything in the city was locked except the bridges leading out of it, he said, and it was against the law to walk on most of them.
    When they came to the church, Buddy went up the stairs and shook the doors. From somewhere above came a ghostly agitated cooing. “Pigeons don’t care for their sleep being disturbed,” he remarked.
    Clay followed him down a narrow passage that ran alongside the church. Every few feet there was a long window close to the ground. When they reached the last one, Buddy put both of his work gloves on his right hand and broke the window with it. “Sorry, church,” he whispered. He picked out pieces of glass and piled them neatly nearby. He put his arms around Clay’s waist.
    â€œI’m going to drop you through there. Don’t stiffen up. Try to land soft,” he said.
    It felt like a long drop. Clay landed in a crouch, his feet smarting. A second later, Buddy hit the floor with a thump. Clay walked into the sharp edge of a table and felt his way along it until he bumped into a chair that fell with a clatter. He let go of the table, took a few steps, and reached a wall. His fingers touched papers tacked to a cork board. Quickly, he backed to the table. Buddy was saying something he couldn’t make out, because of the pounding in his head. He sneezed violently, and the sound of it echoed and reechoed. They must be in a very large room.
    Buddy had lit a match and was holding it aloft. Through the broken window came a wave of frigid air as if the night was breathing into it.
    â€œI said, Why are you climbing up on that table, Clay?”
    â€œI thought I could sleep on it,” Clay answered. He didn’t want to admit he was afraid of the floor, afraid he’d roll into some deep hole and disappear.
    â€œNaw. You’d fall off. They been painting down here. I see some drop cloths in the corner. We’ll cover up with them.”
    A few minutes after Clay had crawled under the cloths, he felt almost warm, although the fumes of paint set off the dizziness that had come over him earlier on the street.
    He could hear Buddy close by, snoring faintly. Buddy could always find a place to lie down and sleep. Even if they were at the North Pole, Buddy would make a little house of ice. There’d be a big coal burning inside, and the heat of it would warm every part of him. He blinked at the coal. It blinked back, and he fell asleep.
    â€œWake up, Clay. Wake up …” he heard. It must be so hard to breathe because his head was under the drop cloth. But when Buddy peeled it away, Clay found it was still difficult. There was a fog in his