Forced Autonomy Phase 3 by Lila Felix

Author:Lila Felix [Felix, Lila]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-03-18T00:00:00+00:00

We approach the fire, and I was scared. All it would take would be a slip of a hip and ‘oops, Petra fell in the fire,’ but, at least, she was rat bite germ free.

Ugh.

It left me in a position where I didn’t know what to do among these people who had once taken me in like I was their long lost relative. For the first time, I felt like a grainer again.

And I’d never felt like a grainer—really.

The next week was hell. Lauren was pretty ambiguous about the whole thing, but Creek was downright nasty. She wasn’t even speaking to me. Everything was a mess. Shep and I were really bad at pretending we were together. We held hands like school kids forced to be on the same team during a rainy game of Red Rover. It probably didn’t help our case that I stared at Law all day either. But it was his fault. Why did every single chore he did require his shirt to be off?

I never thought I would’ve felt this way, but I missed chores. Along with being shunned from my friends, I was also shut out of my regular chores.

Which meant that Leah, knitting needles, and I had become way too intimate friends.

I could now make socks.

And hats.

I hated knitting.

Mostly I hate yarn, in general.

Mrs. Callahan had also taken me under her wing. Despite her age and reliance on a cane, she was a spry lady. I’d never noticed how much she did on the sidelines. She gave me a little notebook to take notes on as she taught me cures and concoctions. It was really an old order pad, like the ones waitresses used—but it got the job done. I had pages and pages of ailments along with their natural cures and the recipes that collated with them.

“Do you feel that,” she asked me one day out of the blue while she used rocks to pummel lavender buds.

“Feel what?” I looked around thinking I had missed a lesson or a reaction I should’ve been privy to.

“That feeling of impending doom.”

“I don’t. Do you?”

“I feel it. Down in here,” she pointed to her belly.

Please don’t let her be talking about gas. My grandmother Magda used to talk about gas all the time. Anything that hurt the woman was gas. ‘Oh, I’ve got a pain in my elbow, must be a gas bubble,’ ‘Knee is acting up today, must be a bit of gas.’ She’d stretch and pull the offending appendage and it scared the life out of me. I mean, how much can a bubble hurt you? Did gas just have a personal vendetta against the elderly and decide that moving on through the intestinal tract was not enough punishment? Was she trying to pop the bubble or make it move? What if it moved to an equally painful spot and she was back in a pickle, talking about the gas in her rotator cuff? And the most terrifying thought of all, what if

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