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I’ve been sitting behind that flimsy bush for more than two hours now, waiting for dusk to grow darker and the last workers to leave. I have to make sure I don’t miss anyone. Like couples smooching behind the tool shed, or something.

Bending low, I quickly make my way to the picket fence, push a loose stake aside, and squeeze through the gap. The thought of almost-ripe peaches makes my mouth all watery.
 

I swallow the flood of saliva, fumble at the knot that keeps the protective linen bound to the tree, unfold it, and stick my upper body beneath the cover. The first peach goes directly into my mouth, as does the second, third, and fourth. They are a bit tough and sour; I need to be careful so as not to mess up my digestion.

I tie the cover closed and visit another tree, and then another, picking only a few fruits each time so my nightly visit won’t raise suspicion in the morning.

With a grin on my face and my rain jacket bulging with fruits, I make my way up the hill.

———

Ugh, half-ripe peaches and unripe pears. Even thinking of them makes my stomach churn. The thought of dandelion is even worse. How did this happen? I’ve been careful with the fruits. After stuffing a handful of them into my mouth, I ate only another five or six, slowly, one at a time. Did the dandelion do something funny to my innards? I’ve never eaten it, let alone in such amounts. Groaning, I roll onto my side, curling up like a baby. My belly hurts. My legs tremble.

A gurgling spasm shoots through my intestines and unbearable pain follows. I jump out of my hut, yank down my pants, and double over, not knowing which way the food wants to leave first. Front or back? There’s no time to dig a pit.

With clammy hands, I wipe vomit off my mouth. Spruce twigs don’t make for good ass wipes, but they’re all there is.

When the morning sun peeks through the trees, flies have already found me and my stink. A bunch of the fat insects are buzzing around my face, drawing malformed ovals of brainless activity. One of them lands on my rain jacket, crawls around, then flies away to find its buddies. I watch them and drift into complete and blissful indifference. Flies do that to me. I’ve always stared at them crawling over the walls of my room, once Father was done punishing me, or when I woke up screaming my brother’s name, screaming for help. But no one ever came, and my brother never answered. In my dreams, Karlsson’s hair is still plastered to his head, his hand still outstretched in an oddly stiff and balled-up way. My own hands grasp and grasp. Splashes of water. A wide-open mouth, flooding. Eyes staring, submerged, gone. And all I do is struggle. All I do is save myself.

It’s my fault my brother is dead. It might sound somewhat melodramatic to say that I have killed him, but it’s true. I did. I’d bugged him for days to take me up to the reservoir and teach me how to swim. And boy did I learn to swim that day. I barely made it to the water’s edge, fled from there to our home, hoping someone could haul him out of the depths and back into pulsating, breathing, warm life.

When my parents stood at the shore, staring out at the cold water, they looked like two old tree trunks with their roots chopped off. They gazed at the still surface and grew smaller with each second ticking by, while the others — Zula, Lampit, Klemens, Alexandre — moved about frantically, sopping wet, exhausted, and then, giving up. Shrugs, sobs, hugs — for grown-ups only.

I should have seen it in the eyes of my parents. But I didn’t. With my five years, I was too stupid.

I sobbed myself to sleep and woke to Father kicking the door down, stinking of alcohol, fire, and smoke. Stinking of despair and metal.

Metal?
I was wondering, when he hollered a drunkard’s song of accusation. ‘Why did you go up to the reservoir? You knew you weren’t allowed! Why did you go in the water? You knew he had epilepsy! My son! My son!’

With every
why
and every
you
, his fist fell on my face. He sobbed while he did it, and I knew I made him do it. I passed out when he sat on my head, his knife drilling into my back.

When I came to, Zula sat next to me, dark and swollen half-moons under his eyes. My back was bandaged, evidence hidden, mouths sealed. From that day on, all went downhill.

Sometimes I wonder why I feel so old.

I blink into the morning light that falls onto the forest floor in sharp, stabbing angles. If I remain here, unmoving for another half hour, the sun will caress my face. I watch it coming closer, touching the tips of grass blades, ants that carry pupae and dead caterpillars, then my outstretched hand, my arm, and finally, my eyes, cheeks, and lips.

I hum.

The patch of sunlight leaves my face and travels farther. I wonder why I’m here. Maybe I should go home, take up composting, get married to whomever, have five or six babies. Maybe two or three will stay alive and grow up while I turn grey and bent. Like everyone else. Are the others really happy, or are they just pretending to be? I’ve never stopped to ask. How does the compassion thing work, anyway? Am I to show compassion to get some in return? Maybe that’s what I did wrong all these years. I was mostly focussed on saving my own skin. Don’t get punched in the face at school; don’t get your arse whipped at home.

I don’t give a shit about other people’s feelings, so why should anyone care about me?

Anyway.
 

Time to move.
 

I disassemble my spruce house and spread the twigs and branches on the soiled ground before I leave. The place reeks. I reek. Hunger isn’t my main problem at the moment.
 

The reservoir lies quiet and peaceful in the morning glow. I scan the surroundings and, seeing no one, I shed my clothes and jump into the cold water. My calves cramp at once.
 

I gulp air, sink beneath the surface, take both my feet into my hands and stretch the rock-hard muscles, massage them, stretch them again. Swimming is hard, almost impossible, but eventually I make it back to my clothes. Panting and coughing up water, I flop on the grass.

Cackling, I hold my stomach. Tears well up and roll down my cheeks. In my throat is a clump and I choke on it. I’m ready to commit suicide, but panic when I’m about to drown? What bullshit. What’s wrong with me? No guts?

I rub my snotty face, stand, and start washing my shirt and pants. No jumping into cold water while starving — I’ll keep that in mind. The rain jacket is easy to clean — just a few dunks and it smells like new.

I wring the water from my clothes and wash my body, glad that at least the menstruation thing seems to be coming to an end. With nothing to rub myself dry, I catch as much of the warming sunlight as possible while keeping my ears and eyes pricked for anyone walking up the hill.

In my mind, I turn over my options. My clothes need to dry, but if I leave them here, they could attract unwanted attention, or worse, even — someone might take them. I need to find food, but carrying my clothes under my arm won’t help them get dry. Running around naked in the woods isn’t too cool, either — I’m more visible, I’m colder, and I’m certainly not planning to show my bare skin to anyone.

I decide for a compromise and put my wet shirt on. It can dry in the sun without me having to leave it behind. Besides, my body heat will speed up the drying process. I might catch a cold, but I don’t care much. My pants and the rain jacket can be hung somewhere else, maybe in a clearing. But first I need to eat. My body feels like an empty husk of bones and skin.
 

———

I ate twelve blackberries today. Just looking at dandelions makes me woozy; no way I can eat them again. Hunger felt sharp and painful around midday. It’s a dull throbbing now. The cold night is a bigger problem. My pants aren’t dry yet. I’m covered with my rain jacket and atop of that lies a bunch of awkwardly piled-up spruce twigs. The hailstorm keeps blowing through, digging icy fingers into my skin. What a screwed-up summer.

I nod to myself. I’ll solve the food problem tomorrow. I only wish I were a bit fatter. Skin and bones don’t help you stay warm. Fat does.

I’ve never been a good eater. During the winter three years ago, the eating-little habit helped my family survive though. All we had left were wrinkly potatoes that believed spring should have arrived long ago (the potatoes were correct — it was May). The small brown tubers sprouted pale arms in a last attempt to reach sun and warmth where there was none. The beans had grown mould and we had to toss them out in the snow, hoping to attract birds, or even rats we could kill and fry. But nothing came. All preserves had been eaten two weeks prior, as had the hams, beets, nuts, and dried berries. People began hacking open the frozen ground in their search for edible roots, but the starving wild boar had eaten them already and moved on. Hunting parties were sent out and didn’t return. So that’s what we were left with: three potatoes per person per day. We counted the days we had left with something to chew on. It was barely a week.
 

When all was used up, Alexandre found a dead stag in the woods. It must have starved to death; its ribs were poking through scraggy fur. But there was still enough meat on it to feed the village and delay death a few days more. And that was enough for spring to arrive. Snow began to melt, the first birdsong was heard, and we knew that the soil would sprout new life. Twenty-eight people died that winter. Babies not counted.

I’m warm when I wake up. Shit! Wasn’t there something about hypothermia? One feels warm when one is actually freezing to death? My heart beats a panicky rumble, my eyes snap open, and a dreadful future presents itself: Runner sits before me. He sports a black eye.

‘Breakfast?’ he asks.

I notice the sleeping bag. He must have spread it over me quite a while ago because I feel really hot now. Might also be from the shock of seeing him.

I sit up and rub my eyes. ‘No need to be polite.’

‘Hmm. I’m certainly having some. I thought you might be hungry.’ He doesn’t even look up from the delicacies he’s spreading on his sandwich.

‘You know, I’m too tired for pleasantries. Just get it over with. Say your thing and go back home.’

‘You believe you’ve failed,’ he says.

There might be something resembling a smile. At least his mouth twitches and there is a funny glint to his eyes. It could also be a sneer.
 

‘It’s obvious,’ I point out.

‘Is it?’ He spreads butter on a second slice of bread. My mouth waters. I might actually be drooling soon.

‘You said one week. It’s now day three.’ Why do I sound as if I want to protest?

‘No.’

‘No what?’

‘It’s day four.’

‘Oh.’ Right. I stare at the sandwich he holds in his outstretched hand. My stomach somersaults in anticipation. ‘Thanks,’ I say and more or less inhale the offered food.

‘This is not about reaching a randomly set goal, Micka. It’s about showing the spirit. You did your best using the resources you had available. With the weather conditions and the lack of provisions, equipment, and warm clothing, you never had a chance to get through a whole week. I’m quite surprised you’re still here.’

What’s that supposed to mean? ‘So why…’

‘I wanted to see how easily you give up, and it seems you didn’t even consider it. I’m not here to torture you, and I’m not here to play the smart ass, if I may be so blunt. Humans don’t live all by themselves. We are social animals. We help one another, and that is how we survive. You and I will be in the woods for a week. You haven’t been alone these four days, and you won’t be alone the next three days. Here, have more bread and cheese.’

So, he saw me pooping and vomiting all over the forest floor. Brilliant. To say I’m mortified would be an understatement. ‘I don’t understand your test,’ I mumble and snatch a slice of bread and a hefty chunk of cheese.

‘I need to know what kind of person you are. That means I’ll occasionally push you over your limits. At the same time, I want you to question everything. Total obedience doesn’t show me who you are, it only shows that you can pretend to be a machine.’

His words remind me of my ten-year-old self. I had no clue what I could do once I came of age. I settled on nomadic prostitute, because I discovered my second talent next to turbine fixing: being able to pretend I’m all right, no matter how deep the shit is I’m wading through.