Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town by Cory Doctorow (phonics books TXT) 📕

and from the voice and the words and the love that
echoed from every surface.

"Adam, my son. Keep your brother safe. You need each other. Don't be
impatient or angry with him. Give him love."

"I will," Alan said, and he relaxed his arms so that he was holding
Danny in a hug and not a pinion. Danny relaxed back into him. "I love
you, Dad," he said, and they trudged out of the water, out into the last
warmth of the day's sun, to dry out on the slope of the mountainside,
green grass under their bodies and wispy clouds in the sky that they
watched until the sun went out.

#

Marci followed him home a week before Christmas break. He didn't notice
her at first. She was cunning, and followed his boot prints in the
snow. A blizzard had blown up halfway through the school day, and by the
time class let out, there was fresh knee-deep powder and he had to lift
each foot high to hike through it, the shush of his snow pants and the
huff of his breath the only sounds in the icy winter evening.

She followed the deep prints of his boots on the fresh snow, stalking
him like he stalked rabbits in the woods. When he happened to turn
around at the cave mouth, he spotted her in her yellow snow-suit,
struggling up the mountainside, barely visible in the twilight.

He'd never seen an intruder on the mountain. The dirt trail that led up
to the cave branched off a side road on the edge of town, and it was too
rocky even for the dirt-bike kids. He stood at the cave-mouth, torn by
indecision. He wanted to keep walking, head away farther uphill, away
from the family's den, but now she'd seen him, had waved to him. His
cold-numb face drained of blood and his bladder hammered insistently at
him. He hiked down the mountain and met her.

"Why are you here?" he said, once he was close enough to see her pale,
freckled face.

"Why do you think?" she said. "I followed you home. Where do you live,
Alan? Why can't I even see where you live?"

He felt tears prick at his eyes. "You just *can't*! I can't bring you
home!"

"You hate me, don't you?" she said, hands balling up into mittened
fists. "That's it."

"I don't hate you, Marci. I -- I love you," he said, surprising himself.

She punched him hard in the arm. "Shut up." She kissed his cheek with
her cold, dry lips and the huff of her breath thawed his skin, making it
tingle.

"Where do you live, Alan?"

He sucked air so cold it burned his lungs. "Come with me." He took her
mittened hand in his and trudged up to the cave mouth.

They entered the summer cave, where the family spent its time in the
warm months, now mostly empty, save for some straw and a few scattered
bits of clothing and toys. He led her through the cave, his eyes
adjusting to the gloom, back to the right-angle bend behind a stalactite
baffle, toward the sulfur reek of the hot spring on whose shores the
family spent its winters.

"It gets dark," he said. "I'll get you a light once we're inside."

Her hand squeezed his tighter and she said nothing.

It grew darker and darker as he pushed into the cave, helping her up the
gentle incline of the cave floor. He saw well in the dark -- the whole
family did -- but he understood that for her this was a blind voyage.

They stepped out into the sulfur-spring cavern, the acoustics of their
breathing changed by the long, flat hollow. In the dark, he saw
Edward-Frederick-George playing with his matchbox cars in one corner;
Davey leaned up against their mother, sucking his thumb. Billy was
nowhere in sight, probably hiding out in his room -- he would, of
course, have foreseen this visit.

He put her hand against the cave wall, then said, "Wait here." He let go
of her and walked quickly to the heap of winter coats and boots in the
corner and dug through them for the flashlight he used to do his
homework by. It was a hand-crank number, and as he squeezed it to life,
he pointed it at Marci, her face wan and scared in its light. He gave
the flashlight a few more pumps to get its flywheel spinning, then
passed it to her.

"Just keep squeezing it," he said. "It doesn't need batteries." He took
her hand again. It was limp.

"You can put your things on the pile," he said, pointing to the coats
and boots. He was already shucking his hat and mittens and boots and
snow pants and coat. His skin flushed with the warm vapors coming off of
the sulfur spring.

"You *live* here?" she said. The light from the flashlight was dimming
and he reached over and gave it a couple of squeezes, then handed it
back to her.

"I live here. It's complicated."

Davey's eyes were open and he was staring at them with squinted eyes and
a frown.

"Where are your parents?" she said.

"It's complicated," he said again, as though that explained
everything. "This is my secret. No one else knows it."

Edward-Frederick-George tottered over to them with an armload of toy
cars, which he mutely offered to Marci, smiling a drooly smile. Alan
patted him on the head and knelt down. "I don't think Marci wants to
play cars, okay?" Ed nodded solemnly and went back to the edge of the
pool and began running his cars through the nearly scalding water.

Marci reached out a hand ahead of her into the weak light, looked at the
crazy shadows it cast on the distant walls. "How can you live here? It's
a cave, Alan. How can you live in a cave?"

"You get used to it," Alan said. "I can't explain it all, and the parts
that I can explain, you wouldn't believe. But you've been to my home
now, Marci. I've shown you where I live."

Davey approached them, a beatific smile on his angelic face.

"This is my brother, Daniel," Alan said. "The one I told you about."

"You're his slut," Davey said. He was still smiling. "Do you touch his
peter?"

Alan flinched, suppressing a desire to smack Davey, but Marci just knelt
down and looked him in the eye. "Nope," she said. "Are you always this
horrible to strangers?"

"Yes!" Davey said, cheerfully. "I hate you, and I hate *him*," he cocked
his head Alanward. "And you're all *motherfuckers.*"

"But we're not wee horrible shits, Danny," she said. "We're not
filthy-mouthed brats who can't keep a civil tongue."

Davey snapped his head back and then forward, trying to get her in the
bridge of the nose, a favorite tactic of his, but she was too fast for
him and ducked it, so that he stumbled and fell to his knees.

"Your mother's going to be very cross when she finds out how you've been
acting. You'll be lucky if you get any Christmas pressies," she said as
he struggled to his feet.

He swung a punch at her groin, and she caught his wrist and then hoisted
him to his tiptoes by his arm, then lifted him off the floor, bringing
his face up level with hers. "Stop it," she said. "*Now*."

He fell silent and narrowed his eyes as he dangled there, thinking about
this. Then he spat in her face. Marci shook her head slowly as the gob
of spit slid down her eyebrow and over her cheek, then she spat back,
nailing him square on the tip of his nose. She set him down and wiped
her face with a glove.

Davey started toward her, and she lifted a hand and he flinched back and
then ran behind their mother, hiding in her tangle of wires and
hoses. Marci gave the flashlight a series of hard cranks that splashed
light across the washing machine and then turned to Alan.

"That's your brother?"

Alan nodded.

"Well, I see why you didn't want me to come home with you, then."

#

Kurt was properly appreciative of Alan's bookcases and trophies, ran his
fingertips over the wood, willingly accepted some iced mint tea
sweetened with honey, and used a coaster without having to be asked.

"A washing machine and a mountain," he said.

"Yes," Alan said. "He kept a roof over our heads and she kept our
clothes clean."

"You've told that joke before, right?" Kurt's foot was bouncing, which
made the chains on his pants and jacket jangle.

"And now Davey's after us," Alan said. "I don't know why it's now. I
don't know why Davey does *anything*. But he always hated me most of
all."

"So why did he snatch your brothers first?"

"I think he wants me to sweat. He wants me scared, all the time. I'm the
eldest. I'm the one who left the mountain. I'm the one who came first,
and made all the connections with the outside world. They all looked to
me to explain the world, but I never had any explanations that would
suit Davey."

"This is pretty weird," he said.

Alan cocked his head at Kurt. He was about thirty, old for a punk, and
had a kind of greasy sheen about him, like he didn't remember to wash
often enough, despite his protestations about his cleanliness. But at
thirty, he should have seen enough to let him know that the world was
both weirder than he suspected and not so weird as certain mystically
inclined people would like to believe.

Arnold didn't like this moment of disclosure, didn't like dropping his
carefully cultivated habit of hiding this, but he also couldn't help but
feel relieved. A part of his mind nagged him, though, and told him that
too much of this would waken the worry for his brothers from its
narcotized slumber.

"I've told other people, just a few. They didn't believe me. You don't
have to. Why don't you think about it for a while?"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to try to figure out how to find my brothers. I can't go
underground like Davey can. I don't think I can, anyway. I never
have. But Davey's so... *broken*... so small and twisted. He's not
smart, but he's cunning and he's determined. I'm smarter than he is. So
I'll try to find the smart way. I'll think about it, too."

"Well, I've got to get ready to go diving," Kurt said. He stood up with
a jangle. "Thanks for the iced tea, Adam."

"It was nice to meet you, Kurt," Alan said, and shook his hand.

#

Alan woke with something soft over his face. It was pitch dark, and he
couldn't breathe. He tried to reach up, but his arms wouldn't move. He
couldn't sit up. Something heavy was sitting on his chest. The soft
thing -- a pillow? -- ground against his face, cruelly pressing down on
the cartilage in his nose, filling his mouth as he gasped for air.

He shuddered hard, and felt something give near his right wrist and then
his arm was loose from the elbow down. He kept working the arm, his
chest afire, and then he'd freed it to the shoulder, and something bit
him, hard little teeth like knives, in the fleshy underside of his
bicep. Flailing dug the teeth in harder, and he knew