The Lofties (The Echelon Book 2) by Ramona Finn (no david read aloud .txt) 📕

and you got used to it. Outside was quiet, the desert so still you’d hear a rat sneeze. Here, sounds came and went without rhythm, the rush of a train, the snort of a horse, a man rattling by with a drinks cart. You got quiet for a while, then a burst of commotion, random shufflings and murmurings that didn’t seem to come from anywhere.

“I can’t sleep,” I said. “I start to drift off, and then ahhhhhhh. They build a train that floats on air, but they can’t make it stop moaning?”

“No trains here,” said Lock. He shipped the oars and wiped his hands on his pants. “I like this, on the water.”

I couldn’t argue with that. It was better out here with the lake lapping at our boat. The sounds of the shore seemed insignificant as the water painted over them. I lay back and watched a fluffy cloud scatter to floss.

That night, I couldn’t sleep again. I’d shut the doors to my balcony, but the house had its own sounds, the click and hum of the air conditioning, the chattering of birds in the atrium. A full moon had risen over the city, and I could feel it staring at me along two walls of windows. I felt on display, like the lizard Ona had settled on, basking in its terrarium.

I turned my face to the wall and my hackles rose. I stared back at the moon and couldn’t close my eyes. At last, peeved and restless, I threw my quilt over my shoulders and marched out. I found the living room haunted, the TV tuned to snow. Weird shadows scudded across the ceiling, chasing me through to the kitchen. I checked the fridge and found nothing I wanted—strange, puffy cookies, more marshmallow than crunch, meat sliced so thin I could trace its capillaries like maps. It looked raw to my eye, still bloody. A bottle of juice lurked in one corner, green and sort of menacing, whitish chunks floating on its surface.

I left the kitchen behind and went downstairs. The birds were awake and all lined up on their perch. They had long, hooked beaks and black, leathery heads, red ears and red shoulders raw as wounds. They stopped chattering at the sight of me, like I’d crashed their secret bird meeting.

“Sorry,” I told them. “Can’t seem to sleep.”

“Me neither.”

I jumped and shrieked. The birds did the same, maybe mocking, maybe scolding. I whirled to confront Lock.

“What do you think you’re doing, lurking in the dark?”

“Same as you, from the looks of it.” He stood up and stretched. “That moon’s way too bright. Where can you go where it’s dark here?”

“If I knew, I’d be there already.” I stuck a finger in the birdcage. “You think they bite?”

“Yes.” Lock pulled a face. “I tried that earlier, and they one hundred percent do.”

I pulled my finger back out. “I hate the nights,” I said. “I just—either I lie there trying to sleep, but that’s not my bed, or I get on my phone, and I’m—”

“That orange game.” Lock drove his fist into his palm. “I hate that game. It sucks hours of your life, but there’s no end, is there? You can’t win. You just can’t put it down, even when it makes you miserable.” He shook his head rapidly. “Not that I’m miserable, exactly. But it’s weird, going from a big family to—you can hear them all breathing, puttering around in the night. You can wait on the porch and someone’ll always come sit with you. Here, I’m just...”

“I know.”

“I keep wondering what they’re doing—how May’s getting on in the factory, if Billy’s learning to read. If Mom’s hanging in there...”

“It’ll be better for her in the Stars,” I said. “The air’s cleaner up there.”

“Down there to us, now.”

“We were going to look for the grates, me and Ona. Maybe sing so our folks would hear, or drop a note through the cracks.” I watched one of the birds crack a nut, gripping it in one claw while it pecked through the shell. “We can’t, though. It’s—”

“Under a quarantine district. I had the same idea.” Lock tugged at my quilt. “What are you wearing under that?”

“Excuse me?”

“I just meant, are you dressed? ‘Cause if you are, we could take a walk.”

“In the middle of the night?” I let my quilt slip from my shoulders. I was dressed, as it happened, in my new favorite sweater and a long, soft skirt. I’d ordered both off my phone, from a store called Comfort Wear. It lived up to its name.

“Let’s go,” said Lock. We slipped out barefoot, and he led me past the station, up a series of narrow staircases to a district I hadn’t seen before. It seemed to have been built to resemble the Dirt, squat concrete buildings all bunched up together, neon signs blocking the tiny windows.

“This is for us?”

“Tonight it is,” said Lock. “I think it’s mostly for them, a place to gawk at us Decemites while they play like they’re slumming in the Dirt. But there’s no Lofties at night.” He headed into a convenience store, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. It felt like waking from a dream, stepping into warmth instead of air conditioning. The walls were lined with bins of produce, not a freezer in sight, not a pre-packed meal. No racks of candy stood bracketing the register. Only the phone-pay point spoiled the illusion, its amber light blinking behind the counter.

“You coming in, or you just plan on standing there?” Lock had already found a basket and filled it halfway with potatoes.

“You’ll need these too,” I said. I tossed in a bunch of carrots. Lock added cloves, ginger root, and a jar of soy paste. The checkout guy eyed our purchases with disdain.

“You’re really going to eat that?”

Lock laughed. “What, vegetables?”

“No, this stuff.” He held up the soy paste. “I tried it once. Couldn’t get past the smell.”

“Well, you don’t eat it by itself. It’s a seasoning.” Lock snatched