"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."
That night, they didn't sleep apart. They never did anymore. She pressed her back against his chest, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, and they lay in the dark listening to the building settle—or maybe it was the demon, shifting its weight in the ducts, patient as a spider.
"Whatever we have to."
"Promise you'll help me dig."
The demon in the vents watched them go. And for the first time in a long, long time, it smiled too.
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.
Andy nodded. He always nodded.
"Anything."
That made her open her eyes. Two dark voids in a pale face. "Where would we go? The world out there put us in this box, Andy. This coffin of an apartment. Why would we leave?"
And that was the problem. He loved her like a scab he couldn't stop picking. the coffin of andy and leyley
"And do what?"
Leyley sat up. The butter knife glinted. "The one with the door?"
She smiled. It was the saddest, most terrible smile he'd ever seen. "If we go out there," she said, "and
He looked.