The Space Between by Brenna Yovanoff Page B

in a soft, harsh whisper. “Please.”
    I stand at the top of the platform stairs, looking out over dark streets. When I close my eyes, the map is a colored spiderweb in my head, stars showing up where we are, where we came from, where I want to go. His home is close enough, only eight blocks. If he were well we could walk it easily, but he’s too unsteady, and even going down the steps is an ordeal. I have to put my arm around his waist so he won’t trip.
    At the bottom, I let him go and we stand facing each other under the streetlight. As I pull my coat straight, something small and white begins to fall, drifting in front of us. At first, I think it must be tiny scraps of ash.
    The flakes keep falling, landing on my cheeks where they sting hotly, then turn to water. And in a rush of delight, I realize that I know what this is. For the first time in my life, I’m seeing snow.
    I turn slowly, holding out my hands and letting the snowflakes scatter on my face and get caught in my hair. “Look,” I tell Truman, pointing at the sky. “It’s snowing.”
    He just shivers harder and doesn’t look up. His head is bowed and he holds himself tightly, arms crossed against his body.
    “You’re cold.” I slip out of my coat, meaning to offer it, but my shoulders are narrow and he’s much bigger than me. “Here, you can wear my sweater.”
    When I pull the Freddy sweater over my head, the air stings my bare arms. The sweater fits him much better than it does me. He doesn’t have to roll the sleeves up over his hands.
    “Does that help?” I ask.
    He nods, but his breath is unsteady. It leaves his mouth and nose in clouds.
    We make our way down the dark street, my arm around his waist the way I’ve seen the Lilim do with some of the bone men, but this is different. It’s not about want or desire, and every now and then he pitches forward, tripping over his own feet. I catch him as best I can, but he’s heavy and several times he falls hard on the pavement. By the time we reach Sebastian Street, his hands have begun to bleed.

    On the fourth floor, Truman fumbles in the pocket of his jeans, and when he can’t get his key into the lock, I do it for him. I’ve got him by the arm, but once we’re inside, he pulls away and I follow him down the hall. His room is small, with one window and a mostly empty bookcase . There’s a narrow, lumpy-looking bed pushed against the wall and Truman collapses on it, sighing and rolling onto his back.
    “Can you help me?” He whispers. His voice is slurred. “I need to take off my shirt.”
    “Why do you need help?”
    He starts to laugh, a hitching, inexplicable sound. “I can’t—I can’t move my arms.”
    I help him pull the sweaters over his head, first my Freddy sweater, then his gray one. They’re warm inside from being close to his body. When I sit down beside him, the mattress creaks under my weight and he rests a hand over his eyes. Below it, the line of his mouth is soft and lovely and terribly sad.
    I study him, brushing his hair away from his forehead, remembering the feeling of his fingers twined with mine. Trying to find the boy who reached for me in the terminal.
    At my touch, he uncovers his eyes and looks up. “Do I know you?”
    “No.”
    “That’s funny.” He smiles, just a little. “You look . . . familiar. If I don’t know you, why are you doing that to my hair?”
    I watch my hand, stroking his hair away from his face again and again. “It’s nice. It feels soft.”
    Truman laughs like he’s trying not to cough. “Nice. It does feel nice.” He takes a long breath. “Please, don’t stop.”
    And so I keep touching him, feeling the softness of his hair, the warmth of his body. I press my fingers against his temple and find the whisper of his pulse.
    “Why are you taking care of me?” he asks with his eyes closed.
    I don’t know how to answer. I’m not the kind of person who’s supposed to be taking care of anyone. Even the question feels