𝗗𝗜𝗚𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗟 𝗦𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘

Hurricane Drunk

Two months, as it turns out, is time to make improvements. Together, James and Isabell turn two months to six.

It takes work.

James works long, long hours in some crappy grocery store that pays him just enough to get by. It's tedious, the air-con permanently broken, but they don't ask for background references and they pay in cash rather than cheques. Cash is good. Cheques need a bank account, which is a little more permanent than they can afford.

While he's gone, Isabell is alone at home. James would like to say this doesn't worry him. Unfortunately, it does.

Mostly, she's fine. She has a crappy TV that he stole from a dumpster, and he supplies her with enough DVDs to keep her going, along with a dirt-cheap radio that only plays Spanish stations. Everything James can find, he brings home to entertain Isabell, and she falls on every offering like she's starving.

Fifteen different books, a box set of 'The Sopranos', six Disney movies, and a trashy magazine that he tore half of the pages out of before handing over to her. He hopes it's enough to keep her from getting bored.

The truth is, Isabell is alone from six in the morning until nine at night, and James has no idea what she gets up to in that time. It terrifies him. She swears, of course, that she remains inside, reading and drawing and watching shitty TV shows, but she's too good of a liar. If she's getting tired of being shut inside, she'll leave.

She just won't tell him.

And he can't afford to have her wandering around by herself. She's too little, too easy to kidnap, and definitely too curious. Isabell likes to wriggle her way into every situation, so if he's not there to stop her, the people who are looking for them are going to catch wind sooner or later.

Occasionally, he considers locking her in. However, they are safety hazards that come with that, so all he can do is hope. Besides, Isabell is always home when he gets there. Maybe he's just paranoid.

Maybe.

Towards the middle of month three, monsoon season sweeps in like nothing seen before. In the short walk between the grocery store and the apartment, James gets drenched right down to his underwear, and Alpine stalks sulkily around inside; too put-off by the rain to stray further.

Isabell loves it. She sits for hours a day at the window, tracing the drips down the glass and whispering nonsense to Alpine. When James comes home, she curls up on the bed and watches movies with him. She's seen some so many times that she can recite full passages.

Late one Thursday, he comes home late, and she's standing at the front door to greet him. Her hair is soaked, nose red, and she's dressed in only a dress and one sock – God knows where the other one may be.

He frowns as he darts in from the rain, wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting her off of the wet sidewalk.

"Iz, what the hell are you doing out here? You're drenched."

"You were late." Her legs lock around his waist as James lets them in, carries her up the stairs. "I thought something might've happened."

"'M sorry." He kisses the top of her head. "Shift ran over."

"Whatever."

She's clearly sulking, and he feels immediately guilty. Isabell worries, she always has done, and she hates to be left alone. If they could afford it, both tracking-wise and money-wise, he'd buy them both a phone, but there are simply too many difficulties.

He shifts her further on his hip, opening the door to their apartment and setting her down on the mattress.

She's well and truly soaked, rain dripping steadily into the fabric. James wraps a blanket around her before the cold can settle – they can't afford towels – and he rubs at her hair until it's a suitable level of dryness.