Leyley: The Coffin Of Andy And

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.

Andy nodded. He always nodded.

Andy didn't move. "We can't stay here."

"We could go out," Andy whispered into her hair. "Tomorrow. Find another building. Another family."

"I saw Mom today," he said quietly.

"Because we're running out of food. Because the smell from the chute is starting to drift back up." He hesitated. "Because I had the dream again."

"You're faking sleep again."

"You're staring again," Leyley mumbled, not opening her eyes.

Leyley sat up. The butter knife glinted. "The one with the door?" the coffin of andy and leyley

"Promise you'll help me dig."

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?" That night, they didn't sleep apart