Life Before Legend: Stories of the Criminal and the Prodigy Read Free Page A

take things one day at a time.”
    We eat in silence for a few more minutes before she speaks up again. “You haven’t
     told me much about yourself,” she says. “I don’t even know your name.”
    I put down my half-eaten can of sausage and beans, then lean back on my elbows. “Ed,”
     I reply, blurting out the first name I can think of. “What else do you want to know?”
    She studies me. In the flickering lamplight, her eyes take on a honey-colored tint.
     “How long have you lived in Lake?” She takes another bite of food and then tosses
     her can aside. “What happened to your family? And how’d your knee get that way? You
     always lived on the streets, or what?”
    I’m quiet throughout her questions. It’s only fair that she’s asking, of course, since
     she’s told me so much about herself. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from living
     on the streets, it’s to keep details about myself secret. Where would I even start?
     My name’s Day. My family lives about thirty blocks northeast of here. I have a mother,
     an older brother, and a younger brother. All of them think I’m dead. Republic doctors
     sliced open my knee while experimenting on my body. I was shipped to them after failing
     my Trial, and they’d left me for dead in a hospital basement. I stumbled around, bleeding,
     for weeks afterward. I always travel alone, because if the Republic ever finds me,
     they’ll snuff me out like a candle. I keep my head turned away as the memories fill
     me up and threaten to burst out of my chest. So many stories to tell.
    But I fold them away one by one.
    Charlie sobers at my silence. “Well,” she starts, looking a little awkward for the
     first time since she’s known me. She fiddles with one of her braids. “All in good
     time, whenever you’re ready.”
    I smile at her over the lamplight.
    “If you want, you know, you can stay for a few more days,” she says. “My dad says
     you’re a good worker and proved your worth . . . he’d be happy to keep you around
     a little longer. He might even give you some wages under the table. And, well, you’re
     a nice kid. The streets are a harsh place to live—I dunno how long you’ll make it
     out there on your own.”
    Her offer’s tempting. My heart warms, and there are unspoken words of gratitude on
     the tip of my tongue. I soak in her freckled face and rumpled braids, and in this
     moment I’m completely ready to say yes. I can see myself working here beside her and
     making some sort of life for myself. I ache to belong to a family again, to become
     friends with this girl. Wouldn’t that be something, yeah? I close my eyes and lose
     myself to the fantasy.
    “I’ll think about it,” I finally reply. It’s a good enough answer for now.
    Charlie shrugs, and we both go back to finishing our dinners. We sleep side by side
     out on her boat’s deck that night, close enough that our shoulders touch and I can
     feel the warmth coming from her body. I spend most of the night looking up at the
     sky. It’s clear enough for me to make out about a dozen stars. I count them over and
     over again until they lull me into a light sleep.

    A shriek jolts me awake.
    I instinctively hop to my feet, then wince as my bad knee twists and forces me to
     sit back down. My pouch of random trinkets pokes me uncomfortably in my side. What’s
     going on? What happened? Is it morning? All I notice in my confusion is the dim light
     of dawn that paints everything bluish gray.
    “No! You can’t!”
    Another shriek. This time I hear it come from farther down the pier, where the crew’s
     crowded around something. Curious passersby have started accumulating along the street.
Don’t get close. Stay away.
My instincts flare up, and instead of joining them, I hurry over to a nearby stack
     of crates and crouch in the shadows.
    At first I can’t tell what’s going on. Then, as I squint closer at the scene, I realize
     what’s happening. A few