SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

that I paid for myself and three people—Maart, Rainer, and Evard—just not four. Not Anya. So he’s not backing out.

But still. I have no guarantees and nothing to hold over him if he changes his mind. If he should find some unpaid bill. Some debt on my balance sheet.

Knowing Anya’s secret would go a long way in guaranteeing that in four months this whole life I’ve lived will be nothing but the remnant of a nightmare.

When the rice is done I drop in the freeze-dried protein, stir it up, and then split the ration in half with a sigh. I’m losing weight. It shouldn’t matter. There are no more fights in my future and plenty of feasts coming up, but just the idea of losing muscle mass triggers a panic inside me that isn’t easily tamed.

The Rock gets stocked with food once a year. When the training camp beings. We bring as much as we can and then we ration it to make it last. But I always come out here by myself at least once at Udulf’s command. So when we leave camp, there needs to be just enough to get me through until the supply ship comes again.

Anya wasn’t supposed to be here. There is just not enough food for both of us.

But whatever. It can’t be helped. I’m not going to let her starve.

I take the two bowls, climb the stairs up to the top platform, and find her sitting on the edge, feet dangling over. There’s a low, steel-beam railing that lines that side of the helipad with just enough room to slip your legs underneath and dangle them off the edge. And it’s funny that she chose that spot, because that’s where I like to eat too.

The steel beam is wide enough to be a table. And when the kids are out here, they will all fight for a spot at the beam when it’s chow time.

I smile at that, then push the thought aside. They’re not my problem either. They’re all just like Anya. Lucky as fuck that they ended up with me and not someone like Pavo.

I slide my legs under the beam about two feet away from Anya, then push the second bowl of chicken and rice in front of her.

She doesn’t look at me, but she starts scooping the meal up to her mouth with her fingers. We have forks, but I didn’t bring them on purpose. Life on the Rock is that of a heathen and Anya Bokori is just going to have to get used to it.

We eat in silence, but the meal is so meager, it’s over in a matter of minutes. I think I am hungrier when I’m done than I was when I started. I think Anya is too, because she looks down at her bowl with longing.

I sigh. Loudly. Because it would be nice if she could see this for what it is. Kindness.

There is enough food here to last one person exactly twenty-five more days. She’s lucky I give her anything.

She gets to her feet—not saying anything, of course—and then picks up my empty bowl and walks off. After a few minutes, I get up and follow her because she probably won’t think about bringing the sleeping mats up. But when I get to the stairwell, she is already on her way up, mats in hand.

I smile at that. She doesn’t smile back. Just hands me a mat and then follows me back up to the helipad.

The birds are back. The gulls are loud on the platform below us, but the albatrosses are here on top, dropping off the last meal of the day for the chicks, who are several months old and as big as medium-sized dogs.

Some of them—the ones without chicks this year—follow me across the platform. They don’t beg much if it’s just me out here. It’s like they know I don’t have any food to spare. In fact, they will often drop slimy little fish at my feet like I’m their chick and they’re in charge of my wellbeing.

Anya lays her mat down in a spot near the center of the platform, but I walk over and pick it up before she sits down, pointing to a spot as far away from the nests as we can get.

Again, if the kids are here the albatross know their limits. They are outnumbered and a couple dozen brats under the age of twelve is nothing but annoying. But if it’s just me—or just me and Anya—that’s a temptation they can rarely resist. They aren’t mean. Not to me, anyway. But they are pests and once they get a little attention, they want more. So it’s best to stay out of their way.

She doesn’t motion or make any move to contradict my change-of-location decision. Just plops down on top of her mat and pulls her knees up to her chest with a sigh.

I sit down too, then lie back. Tired, not exhausted—you can barely call what I did today training—but tired in another way. Weary, I guess. And Udulf’s visit has left behind a bad taste. A lingering sense of doubt that I would prefer not to think about.

Usually, when I’m out here alone, I will cheat. I talk to the birds. And the moon. And the sea. I talk a lot, actually. It’s only when others are here with me that I keep the vow of silence I came up with that first time. And maybe, if Anya had been chatty, we’d have spent these weeks together getting to know each other. I probably would’ve cheated with her here, telling myself she doesn’t count since she’s not one of us.

But she’s not chatty. And now, after a few days of thinking about it, talking to her feels like submission. And isn’t it?

I imagine she had everyone in her king’s house under her spell of silence. That little sister of hers probably talked for Anya the way Maart talks for me when I’m