The Coffin Of Andy And Leyley Site
She crawled over to him, moving like smoke. Sat down so close their knees touched. "That's not a prophecy. That's just your brain being dramatic." She reached out and tapped his sternum with the flat of the blade. "You're not glass. You're the only solid thing in this whole rotten building."
The apartment had stopped smelling like death weeks ago. Now it just smelled like old tea, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of the preserves Leyley had been hoarding under her bed.
"Whatever we have to."
"And do what?"
He looked.
"If we go out there," she said, "and it's just more of the same—more people who want to put us in boxes—promise me something."
The door to the apartment was still chained. The landlord's body had been gone for three days—they'd shoved it down the garbage chute in pieces, working in silent tandem like a two-headed animal. No one had come looking. No one ever did. the coffin of andy and leyley
"Feel that?" she whispered. "Still going. As long as that's going, you don't get to check out on me. You don't get to see ghosts. You look at me."
He wanted to believe her. He always wanted to believe her.
Leyley set the knife down. For once, she didn't have a clever, cutting remark. She just took his hand and pressed it flat against her own chest, over her heart. It was beating too fast. She crawled over to him, moving like smoke
Andy didn't move. "We can't stay here."
"Because we're running out of food. Because the smell from the chute is starting to drift back up." He hesitated. "Because I had the dream again."