𝗗𝗜𝗚𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗟 𝗦𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘

The Dog Days

A fortnight in Oregon. James tries to make it work, he really does.

Unfortunately, they just don't have enough to make ends meet.

One backpack, one spare change of clothes for the both of them, one of Isabell's shoes. Two cereal bars, four packets of M&Ms, a roll of bread, a bruised apple, two Tylenol, a seventh of a shampoo bottle. A pair of scissors, five guns, twenty-two knives, one journal, two pens, a hair ribbon and a broken pair of plastic sunglasses. A dollar and 75 cents.

That is all they are going on.

It turns James' stomach just to think about it.

They are living in a caravan park, waiting for a plan to fall into their laps. Isabell plays – albeit hesitantly – with the other children staying there, and James sits in the car and wonders, rather hopelessly, how they are going to possibly survive.

When the nights are too humid, his head too full of thoughts, he considers turning himself in. Driving back to Washington, tracking down Steve and giving it all up. The thought is tempting until he remembers how much time he'd serve. Until he remembers that they'd give Isabell into social services, and he'd never see her again.

So, James panics through the nights and sleeps through the days, scraping together the food that they have so he can feed Isabell. She drifts in and out of his sight, in and out of the woods, but she's always there, somehow.

He can feel her in his blood.

And, because of that, he can feel her fading away. She is thinner than ever, suddenly quiet, and her voice has turned raspy. They are at their lowest, the spring is at its hottest, and it is only a matter of time before something goes wrong.

One tense, Thursday morning, it does.

It is the first time James has actually slept through the night, and he wakes up to the sound of paper scratching and the sun screaming through the windows.

Isabell is sitting cross-legged on the floor in a vest and underwear, flicking through some trashy magazine that one of the older girls in the caravan park gave her. James blinks at her.

She is filthy. Dirt is smeared across her thin shoulders, the rise of her cheekbones, and her hair badly needs washing. That is nothing to mention the stack of dirty clothes in the trunk of the car.

He groans again, slumping back into the seats. They need a laundromat and they need a shower. They have no money. The two very conflicting thoughts roll around in his head like vibranium bombs.

James swallows. He lifts Isabell off the floor and sits her down in front of him, feeling his heart creak as she yawns. His brave, brave girl, who has not complained once about this caravan park, who has been sitting in dirt for three days so he doesn't have to worry about showers.

James pats his lap, smiling as Isabell immediately scrambles towards him. It is good, the gentle weight of her pulling him slowly back down to earth, and he runs a shaky hand through her hair as she settles.

"How're you doing, doll?" He whispers. She shrugs a little.

"Good."

"Are you sure?"

Isabell goes quiet. She rests her head on his shoulder, grimy feet dangling on either side of the seat, and her whole body shudders.

"Tired." She whispers. He nods soothingly.

"Why haven't you been sleeping?"

"Can't."

Isabell has resorted to completely one-word sentences, too exhausted to even cling to James like she usually does, and he presses a worried kiss to the top of her head. She looks pale. Too pale. When he presses his palm to her forehead, she is hot, too.