Free The Farm by EMILY MCKAY Page A

you.”
    “I’ll have to thank her.”
    I hesitated for a moment, then nodded toward the door. “She’s waiting out in the hall.”
    He followed me out the door and we found her standing a few feet away staring down the hall as she bobbed slightly on her toes. She tapped her ring fingers against her thumbs.
    It was one of her self-stimulating behaviors. Watching Mel now—trying to see her through the eyes of a stranger—I was more aware than ever of our similarities and our differences. I could do a fair job imitating her unique behaviors, enough so that I could pass for her if I needed to. But she’d never pass for me.
    As Carter walked up to her in the hall, I felt that familiar protectiveness well up inside of me. She watched him in that odd, crowlike way she had, head tilted to the side, as if she was looking at him through only one eye and then, only half interested.
    Carter just nodded a little and said, “Hey, Mel, you still have your Slinky?”
    She’d been wearing it on her wrist like a bracelet. Now, she slipped it off and clutched it in front of her in both hands, thumbs threaded through the center. She held it up to show him and then shifted her hands up and down so it seesawed from one hand to the other.
    Carter laughed. “Yeah. I thought so.”
    Mel’s gaze jerked to mine for only an instant. “Red rover, red rover, let Carter come over?”
    I knew exactly what she was asking and it made my heart pound. “No,” I told her firmly, praying she’d let it drop. “Jack Sprat, remember, Mel?”
    “Red rover?” she repeated.
    I searched my brain for another nursery rhyme about food. “Hot cross buns. One a penny, two a penny,” I said, improvising. “Don’t you want a hot cross bun?”
    Actually, the idea made even my mouth water a little. Hot food of any kind was pretty rare on the Farm.
    “Red rover,” she repeated firmly and this time I didn’t argue, because she started walking toward the stairs and that was something.
    When we reached the stairs, Mel hung back a couple of steps, just like I’d trained her to do, while I opened the fire door, paused, and listened carefully. The stairwell was one of those completely open jobs. If you stood at the top and looked over the railing, you could see down all seven floors, all the way to the basement. I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out one of the pebbles I kept there, then tossed it down the center shaft of the stairwell. The stone pinged off the railing several times. The clicks and clanks of its trip down echoed up to us and then there was silence. No scuffling of feet or heads peeking out to look up.
    “Okay, come on,” I said.
    Mel shuffled forward. Carter followed at the rear, looking at me with eyebrows raised as if impressed. “Neat trick. You ever hear anything?”
    “Once or twice.” I kept my voice pitched low. “There are a couple of other staircases in the building we could take. I don’t like the idea of being trapped in such a confined space.”
    It was a risk we took being on the seventh floor. There were a lot of steps between us and freedom. There was always the potential of being trapped in the building, but I figured it was worth it if it meant we could sleep at night without fear of someone breaking into our room. Besides, six flights of stairs wasn’t the only thing between us and freedom.
    Tromping down the steps behind Mel, I slipped my hand into my pocket and rubbed one of the pebbles between my thumb and forefinger. These tiny stones gave me the illusion of control. It wasn’t real, but I clung to it nevertheless. Was that brave or just stupid?
    “So, why don’t you call it dinner anymore?” Carter asked from behind me.
    I shrugged. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem like dinner anymore. Breakfast, lunch, dinner: those words imply the food is different. Like breakfast should be bacon and pancakes. Or eggs. Lunch should be big turkey sandwiches with lettuce and tomatoes, maybe a bowl of soup on