I do not own Repo!: the Genetic Opera

Shilo and Graverobber are both tired of the world in which they've lived, and escape to the ruins of DC and from there find what may have eluded them before…OFC/Graverobber/Shilo.

Re-Done because a) I went through a long process of hating everything I churned out and stopped posting anything on fanfiction because the majority of people must have as well and b) when I came back to this I was like, okay, not a bad idea if I only alter a few things. Thus, the writing is more refined and any allusion to the Graverobber's past is eliminated forthwith. Other than 'The First Hit' I have come to loathe and despise any references to the Graverobber's past. If he were supposed to have a back-story, it probably would have been written in the stage play, the screenplay, or both. That being said, I now present to you: Just Sing.

Chapter One

Thirty hours. And it had only taken two to send the world into chaos, and less than twenty-four more to make everyone believe the world had turned safely flat once more.

However, it was the past thirty hours, not two or twenty-four or twenty-six, that kept the Graverobber's attention. The now-infamous Opera Night had claimed its sacrificial lamb—Blind Mag—and had taken both the villain and the man who could have been that, hero, or both—the Oedipus, really. The tragic anti-hero. It was his child, though, his Antigone, which concerned him. She had escaped, but to where? And how? Would she live much longer than her father?

No, no he wasn't afraid. Not at all. Of course not. He feared nothing.

He was…concerned. The child, this Wallace child, was a product of a lifelong quarantine. She wouldn't last a day on her own until someone found her first, and the result would be worthy of any nightmare he'd ever had. Sweet little thing. Helpless little thing. But brave, he remembered. Perhaps it was her seclusion, her lack of knowledge about the real world that gave her the blessèd stupidity to speak out against the most powerful man in the world. Well, he wasn't anymore, but at the time, there had been nothing more sensational. Who was this girl who dared to challenge Rotti Largo? Why was she so important?

"Bullshit, hon. I've known the Graverobber for six years now and I've never seen a little gnome asking for his help before. How old are you anyway? Twelve? You're too damn young for this shit." The Graverobber immediately recognized the voice of one of his customers, one who'd just bought from him. Terel, a part-time transvestite also known as Felicity, who ran the male beauty circuit for GeneCo.

"Please, let me through. He knows me, I'm telling you." The other voice was weak and childish, strained and tired to the point that her protest sounded more like a kittenish mewl. He leapt off his post at the lid of his favorite dumpster and strode forward. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. It had been the one he had selfishly wanted to hear more than anything for the past thirty hours, unsure whether she was still alive, fully escaped, or kept hostage in a stockroom at GeneCo headquarters.

She looked so small, her already puny frame shrunk as she closed in around herself to fight off the cold. Her skin looked waxier than smooth, her hair gone, a bald dome left in its stead. Her body covered in her father's dried blood, her dress torn and her shoes discarded, her feet blistered and bleeding. She turned from the man in the tank top and wedges and saw him. Before she could say anything he told her, "You look like shit."

"Excuse me?" Terel/Felicity demanded, thinking the Graverobber had addressed him instead. "You're the one who never washes his hair, Mountain Man."

"I know it," Shilo replied, ignoring the man-slash-woman. "I tried to rough it, tried to leave the city, but I just got lost. I found my house, but it's off-limits. There are these electric fences and GeneCops circling the perimeters." Her eyes darted between his eyes and the ground before she mumbled, "You were the first person I could think of."

"Now wait. Just. A. Second." Terel/Felicity interrupted, looking, scandalized, at the Graverobber. "You mean this tiny young thing is your pet woman? You have a little statutory rape victim stashed away? I'm leaving." He tottered away on his ridiculous high wedges.

Shilo averted her eyes, too cold, probably, to even blush. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for people—or you—to, to think—"

The Graverobber interrupted her. "There have been far worse speculations about my sexual preferences. There's no foul. I was wondering if you were alright," he added in an offhand tone of voice, hands in his pockets, and he tilted his head down at her. He wore one of his more easy-going smiles, one that didn't make people back away from him, and waited for her to speak. There were a few suspicions hovering near the back of his mind, but he could swat them away for now. "What brought you here?"

Shilo jerked her head, still not quite looking at him, annoyingly modest and shy as a church mouse. "Hey," he said, a little sharply, and she looked at him. "Don't beat around the bush with me. You want something, you ask. I won't hurt you for it. Understand?"

"Okay," she replied. She paused, trying to find the right words. "Weird. I was practicing it all in my head on the way here," she muttered to herself. Finally, she said, slowly and deliberately, choosing her words with great care. "You're the first person I've ever met, the first person I've ever known other than Dad, but he's dead now. He was the only safety net I ever had, so I guess I've really broken the leash, huh?" her mouth twitched upwards for a moment in something resembling a sad, ironic little smile, and he absently returned it, even more half-heartedly. "And you…you're not safe. That definitely isn't the word I'd use. Your work, your personality is nothing close to safe. It's that…you're a survivor. I've seen you cheat death several times, tempt danger and escape unharmed."

The Graverobber considered for a moment telling her, well, no, he didn't always escaped unharmed. He had quite a few "war wounds" to prove the contrary. Still, flattered, he listened without interrupting her again.

""I just thought, you know, if you had room anywhere, or time, you could…show me how to survive, I guess. Until I can live on my own. Maybe I'll get out of here, you know?"

"Where do you plan on going?" he asked. Everything West of Sanitarium Isle was broken away, sunk into the ocean. Everything East was unknown territory. He guessed Shilo hadn't known that, but there were a lot of things she hadn't known. Maybe her dad had assumed he could keep her in confinement until one of them died, and she wouldn't have to learn about the world outside her bedroom. As it was, she looked somewhat bewildered at the possibility that there may not be anyplace as so-called civilized as this.

"Anywhere," she said, though. "Anywhere but here. But the thing is, I need help. I need your help." She struggled for a moment but managed, eventually, to meet his eyes. "Please?" she asked, her voice childlike.

The Graverobber said nothing for a full minute. Admittedly, he wasn't sure what to do. His lived for his autonomy and his independence, not having to deal with a troublesome girlfriend or relative incapable of holding their own bladder. He could only take care of himself, and his ability to do even that was questionable. At the same time, he had honestly worried about her survival, and if she had no one to trust, it would be futile. She'd be dead within days. Life had definitely screwed little Shilo Wallace over, that much was certain. She hadn't brought it all upon herself like the self-pitying scalpel slut unable to make their payments for Zydrate or their latest surgery or both; the people that were supposed to protect her had done enough damage. If there was anyone who deserved their health and their freedom, it was she. But still…

"Graverobber?" Shilo said nervously, wringing at the fabric of her ruined dress.

"I'm still thinking," he said. He looked at her, the woman-child with no hair, no health, and, without guidance, no hope. He sighed. Whatever that hateful thing was called, conscience or the Jiminy Cricket or the angel on his shoulder, he had just enough of it to say, "I'll see what I can do." He winced inwardly. God, what an empty promise, and still just a little more than he could feel comfortable giving her.

She understood this. She'd be a burden, dead weight, for a little while and this was not a patient or parenting man of whom she was asking this favor. "Thank you," she said honestly. She shifted her weight, wincing at the feel of broken skin at the bottom of her feet. There was no way she could comfortably stand. Her heels had been even worse, discarded after two hours of aimless wandering.

The Graverobber had noticed this and gave her shivering, filthy, blood-covered body an appraising look. "You could use a warm shower," he said. "Hell, so could I." He barely gave it another moment's thought. "Come on. I know a place with running water and a bed." He started walking out of the alley before realizing he'd have to slow down for her to keep up. While he was at it, she'd need at least a couple pairs of everything's if the only clothes she had was the now-ruined dress. He stopped by one of his favorite dumpsters—it sat behind one of those repulsive outlet malls. With everything that had been lost in the organ failure epidemic, it was a shame that malls had survived. Still, the perfectly good things that people were stupid enough to throw away were sublime.

"One second," he told her and her wide, questioning eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, and hoisted himself over the top lid, leaping inside with superb grace for someone of his height and stature. From the other side, he called out, "About what size are you?"

"Zero," she told him. "Or Child Large." She wondered, somewhat wearily, what he planned on finding for her.

She heard rustling and banging, then, "What's your opinion on plain black tee shirts?"

"Fine," she said. "I don't need anything fancy."

"That's fantastic, because you won't have any use for 'fancy'." Some more rustling, and she barely heard him mutter. "Briefs? Women wear briefs, too? Low-rise, boy-cut, what the hell is this?" He tossed a plastic package over the top, calling, "How's this?"

Shilo examined the front. It read: a woman's low-rise brief, boy-shorts style, size extra small. The picture looked decent enough, and through the clear plastic she saw the panties were in individual bright summery colors. "'Kay," she said. What a man he was, getting her panties. Maybe he was more patient than she thought.

"Shoe size?" his voice echoed back, but he seemed far enough in the dumpster, a huge monstrosity that made the one at his alley look like a kitchen trash can, that she didn't hear him right the first time.

"Shoe size!" he repeated when she asked.

"Five women's!" she called back. Some rustling, and a muffled but more distinct, "Will a size five-and-a-half do?" and she nodded. Then, feeling stupid, said, "Yes!"

He reemerged a few seconds later, vaulting with one arm on the lid, the other holding a small pile of clothes, out of the dumpster and to his feet in the parking lot in front of her. "Enough dawdling," he said. "Let's go." While leading her to the place he called, "My Crash Course Nest" he described the landlady that allowed him to stay in one of her rooms as long as she could store maintenance gear in his room and he allotted some money for her whenever he decided to make an appearance, which, by the sounds (and more, because to be honest, he didn't look or smell like someone who had constant access to a bed or a shower) of it, wasn't very often and more of an annoyance to the landlady than anything else.

"Wait, you pay her with money?" Shilo asked, trailing behind him.

The Graverobber looked over his shoulder, deciding to play with her a little. "Yes, Shilo, because in society it is quite common to exchange a good or service for something of common monetary value," he said slowly, in a voice ideally used to address people just learning to read. Yeah, of course it would seem surprising that he'd ever pay someone in common currency because his only real net worth appeared to be in the drugs he sold. She looked somewhat hurt, and before she could retaliate in some way, he became more serious. "She doesn't do drugs, doesn't get surgeries. None of that works on her. I make money I don't usually spend, so it's worth it."

"But you're out so often," Shilo argued.

"Yeah, but when I need someplace to stay, I really, really need it. And I trust her far more than I trust any creep who runs motels where you can't even feel comfortable sleeping between the sheets without wondering what all the people who stayed in the room prior did to make the room so goddamned filthy." He stopped at the back entrance of a fairly ugly-looking brick building probably about twenty to thirty stories high. "Oh good. We're here." He crept around to the front of the building and walked in to the closest room on the first floor and knocked on the door.

"It's open!" called a woman's voice; one that had a slight accent from…her mind drew a blank. Some country in Southeast Asia, Shilo guessed. The Graverobber opened the door and ushered her inside, following her.

The woman was small, probably no taller than Shilo, and not much heavier. She had a world-weary, businesslike look about her, as though she had seen the world and it really wasn't worth the hype. She narrowed her eyes when she saw the two of them.

"I thought I told you, you can't bring in clientele," she told him sharply.

"I know it," the Graverobber said quickly. "She isn't one of my customers. She's a friend who needs a place for the night." When the woman gave him an even harder, withering look, he added, "She's eighteen, Joan. Christ." He was lying through his teeth on that last one, but she seemed convinced, or at least too tired to argue at this godforsaken hour.

As he retrieved several bills from his satchel and placed them in the palm of her small, calloused hand, she said, "It's a good thing for you that I can't sleep either. And if you start bringing women home on a regular basis, they might have to pay a fee, too." She reached into a ceramic bowl on the round table next to her and pulled out a key labeled "338", and handed it to him with some trepidation. She didn't trust him much, but it was more than almost anyone would allow.

"Thanks for not handing me over this time," he told her, as always. Any time he came in at night, when she couldn't sleep but sure as hell tried, she could easily have called the cops on him, but after close to ten years had yet to even pick up the phone. She seemed to hate the police force as much as he did.

"Yes, well, maybe next time," she said, her standard reply.

"What a nice lady," Shilo said bitterly, walking with him up the stairs to the fourth floor. The years of confinement hadn't done much to power her lungs, so it seemed quite cruel that after roughing it for nearly a day and a half after suffering the worst trauma of her life, she'd have to wheeze and pant trying to climb three flights of stairs because the elevator was out of order.

"She's spectacular," the Graverobber said in the woman's defense. "She could have had quite a reward right now if she blew the whistle on me. If she had any grudge towards me, any at all, and I'd probably have died before now."

"Well, what about the other people in the apartment? Couldn't they have seen you and called the GeneCops?" Shilo argued.

"Well, as a rule, I don't normally come around when people are out and about," he said when they reached the room. It was on the small side, and ugly, with no attempts at trying to make it a genuine home. Aside from a mattress with a few folded blankets at the foot of it, a fridge not much larger than a milk crate, and several boxes of…things she wasn't sure she wanted to know, there was nothing but paint cans and industrial equipment. Not even furniture. It made sense, of course. She supposed that to him, there was no such thing as home. "I'll find something for us to eat while you're in there," he said, nodding towards the bathroom door. "I guess you haven't had a chance to eat anything for a while?"

Shilo's stomach rumbled loudly enough that it answered for itself. "Any food allergies?" he asked.

"No," she said. Then she added, "I hate mayonnaise, though. Mayonnaise and shellfish."

"Good enough. I'll be back as soon as I can." He opened the window and climbed through to the fire escape, made it to the top of the first floor, and jumped down to the pavement. He didn't keep food in the fridge; there was no point. Anything would spoil between stays. All he kept in there was water and ice. He did, however, know a lot of restaurant patrons who liked the numb high following cheek or chin implants who, though they paid him, claimed to owe him, "a fine meal, eh?" and he figured now was a good time to take them up on those offers. He stopped by one, an Italian place, where at the back door he asked a cook staying over night to clean up for a container of whatever was left over that didn't contain shellfish.

"What size container?"

He thought for a moment. "Big," he said. He didn't have to wait long before the cook appeared with a container half-filled with tortellini, the other half with stuffed manicotti, with napkins and actual silverware. So this fellow knew about him. He imagined this particular restaurant manager saying, "Now, there's this guy who looks like the Boogeyman who's gotten me through quite a few surgeries, and if he ever shows up, give him whatever he wants, no questions asked. Please, for the love of God. I have no idea what he's capable of."

"Have a good morning," he said, staring at the Graverobber's hair and unnaturally pale skin as though he were a monster that hid under his bed as a child. The Graverobber smiled ghoulishly at him in return and walked away, pretty certain that he had sufficiently frightened the kid who stood in the open doorway. He just loved smiling at people, just to see the expression on their faces that made them regret ever having said, "Smile! It won't kill you!"

He climbed the fire escape with one hand, the other gingerly holding the food and silverware, and once he was back inside set the box on top of the fridge and sat on the mattress, waiting for Shilo to come out of the bathroom.

She did, after five minutes, wearing a shirt and pair of black jeans, barefoot and stepping gingerly on the carpet. He noticed there were band-aids where there had been cuts and blisters. He'd hardly remembered he had anything as cute as band-aids and little tubes of Neosporin. Most of the wounds he'd accumulated over the years required nothing short of a bottle of iodine and a sewing kit. He was glad it was there, though. He was glad that, whatever lasting trauma she'd have, she was at least clean.

"I don't have plates," he said after a moment of looking at her, understanding the quiet despair with which she didn't want to trouble him, the downcast eyes, the probability that he dark rings around her eyes would only get worse, and tried to soften the moment. "But I've got everything else." He took a couple of steel cups out of one of the boxes lining the wall beside the fridge and filled them with water, set the cups on the floor and then the container with the silver between the two.

She gave him and the modest little spread a weary, albeit grateful smile and settled down on the floor opposite him as he took off his coat and folded it behind him, and they ate. For a few moments she only prodded the food with her fork, but she realized her hunger was, for the time being, more demanding than her shock or her grief, and she buckled down to eat as much as her shrunken stomach could hold. It tasted good, though not as hot as either of them would have preferred, but luck was on their side, if for no other reason than that they could have been eating something cold. Just silence, aside from chewing and sipping, because really, what was there to say? "Gee, I'm sorry for your loss. I hope the withdrawal from a lifetime of heavy drugs doesn't kill you before the grief sends you to suicide." "So what is it like to have sex with a woman whose privates have been remodeled half a dozen times?" Asking her if she was all right was simply out of the question. He liked to say that, as Shilo had said, he was a survivor; someone who had seen the bad side of everything more than the good, but he couldn't fathom what was running through her mind. He didn't want to know what nightmares she would undoubtedly have.

When she finally did speak, her words surprised him. Staring forlornly into her lap, she mumbled, "I look so ugly without my wig."

The Graverobber looked at her for a moment, considering, before saying, "No, I like it. It makes you look like a little peanut."

Shilo immediately jerked her head up and glared at him. The anger was better than grief, in his opinion, and seeing it on her cute little face made him crack up.

Then tears filled her big mirror eyes and he was mortified to realize he would have a crying girl on his hands. A girl that he made cry.

"Shit! No, I didn't mean it like that! You're pretty! Pretty! Gorgeous, I tell you!" To no avail. She wrapped her little toothpick arms around herself and cried, rocking back and forth. Suddenly it was about more than an offhand remark about her looks. It would be one of the first times she would break down in front of him.

"Why am I alive?" she sobbed, the tears catching on her pants, her bare feet, the carpet. "Why am I left?" She choked on her own tears and regret. "Wh-why? Why d-did he leave me?" She uttered a wordless cry, trembling. "Weeeaaah! Weeeaaahhh!"

Oh God or Buddha or Santa or whoever the fuck is up there, please shut her up. But it wouldn't work. He was the one that had started the tears, so it was inevitably up to him to calm her down, at least for now. He wasn't sure if he should touch her hand or if she was completely averse to touch at this point. "Hey, hey," he said. "I'm sorry."

Shilo looked up at him, eyes red and watery, mouth trembling. "S-s-sorry?" she said, "You're sorry?" she already knew such a word was exempt from his vocabulary, and it shocked her. For a moment she didn't cry, and just looked at him. The tears returned, of course. One word couldn't undo everything, still, it had worked for a moment, and she wasn't sobbing quite as loudly. He decided to take a risk and he scooted forward, putting his hand on her shoulder. She trembled at the touch, once again surprised out of tears, and looked, startled, into his eyes.

"You're a lot stronger than anyone would've thought," he said, the words flying out of their own accord, though certainly not lacking in sincerity. "You're really brave. You know that?" She shook her head, and this time took him by surprise when she grabbed him around the waist and buried her face in his shoulder. His eyes widened, only partially of it at the idea of someone like her touching someone like him even in the most platonic manner, but slowly, he hesitantly patted her on the back. It took several minutes more of soaking his threadbare, unclean shirt, capturing him in a surprisingly strong grip for someone little and weak, but eventually the crying subsided. She sniffled a few times, and he didn't complain when she appeared to have wiped her nose on his shirt—he'd probably use the laundry downstairs anyway, if his clothes were still strong enough to take a go in the washing machine. Her breathing became steadier, though just for a few seconds longer than necessary, she held onto him, arms wrapped tight around the solid power of his back, the delicate contours of her face against the material of his shirt, which had soaked through to his skin. She didn't find a reason for it but he did, so he slowly, gently pulled away from her, and she finally let go of him.

She looked quite embarrassed as she wiped away her remaining tears with the palms of her hands. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to do that to you. Especially not so soon. It won't happen again. I promise." She looked up at him with no small amount of trepidation.

"No, it's okay. I'm the one who's sorry," the Graverobber told her. She made a sincere vow to control herself, but he doubted this would be the last time she'd burst into tears over something he had thought was completely insignificant. He looked down at his shirt, and she too looked at the imprint of tears on the pathetic cloth. He laughed a little, holding the fabric away from his body, which gave her permission to giggle, though it sounded desperate, not sincere. She just wanted to forget it, pretend she was made of steel, lest he decide she was a hopeless case and kick her out.

"You full?" he said finally. Shilo nodded. "Me too. I'm guessing we'll be back tomorrow, so we can have the rest then?" he made a statement, a decision, into a question, unsure if she turned up her nose at leftovers. It didn't matter if she did, initially. She wanted to learn to survive, she'd have to learn that when on the lam, this was as good as it could possibly get. Instead, she nodded eagerly. She'd liked the food as much as he had, apparently. He closed up the container and put it in the fridge, fully enjoying the irony of using it to actually store food for the first time. "If you want to unwind, one of the boxes is full of books. Mostly it's older literature. Ever heard of Steinbeck?"

"Of course," Shilo told him, looking slightly indignant.

"A lot of him. And there's a fair amount of translated books." He took his only other pair of trousers, his only other pair of underpants, and decided it was probably not worth it to put his now snot-covered shirt back on, though it was the only one he had. He hated being unclothed even he was only missing his shirt. Even worse, he was now sharing a space with someone with no personal knowledge of another person's body. Make do, make do. He headed into the bathroom and turned on the showerhead. His landlady, that blessèd woman, had turned on the hot water tap. It was a marvelous thing, a warm shower, especially for a man who considered one per week to be a lucky frequency. He didn't have any shampoo; his hair was past the point of attempting to tame, but he did try to scrub a little soap into it, with limited success. He remembered Felicity, after paying for and getting his (her?) high, once telling him that it was frightening to see a white man with dreadlocks.

"They aren't dreadlocks," he'd said.

Felicity had giggled feebly and taken a few strands of dyed hair in his hand, far more bold than he would have been sober, and said, "Well it doesn't look like hair should look." And he, the professional beautician, should know. Remembering that exchange made him scrub harder, but he inevitably tangled his fingers in snarls that took several minutes to escape, and managed to rip out a few pieces of hair in the process. "Goddamn it," he muttered, and focused instead on cleaning his body, and was both fascinated and repulsed to see weeks worth of grime and dried and re-dried sweat all spilling down the drain. When he was sure he was as clean as he was ever going to be, he turned off the water and dried off, glancing in the mirror. His lipstick –a few of his clients gave him hell for that and still claiming to be heterosexual—had pretty much faded to a slightly lavender-looking color, which looked far worse, and most of his eye make-up was gone, except for a perpetual ring of liner that made him look just a little bit like that extinct bear…the panda. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't bleach his skin or wear white face-paint. It's amazing how a mixture of a genetic predisposition to have fair skin mixed with avoiding sunlight for close to ten years paled the skin; he wanted to tell the nonbelievers.

"You're ugly, right?" he told his reflection. "Is that why you wear freaky make-up? Because it's better to look like the Boogeyman than an ordinary mortal?" He snorted and pulled on his under-and over-pants and stopped for a moment, his hand poised at the doorknob, wondering if maybe it was just a better idea to sit in the bathroom until he was sure Shilo was asleep and then get out. Nah, he thought. It'll be miraculous if she sleeps at all tonight. He took a breath and opened the door, holding his dirty clothes and boots under one arm.

Shilo had been curled up on the mattress, reading a paperback copy of Of Mice and Men, but at the sound of the bathroom door closing she immediately looked up and turned slightly pink (which was better than slightly green) at the sight he presented. At least she didn't see the tattoo on his back of Venus rising from the sea, except with vines and barbed wire both encircling her naked body. As it was, she had the (unpleasant, he was sure) privilege of seeing prominent chest hair, which seemed like nothing compared to the scars—ones too messy and painful-looking to be surgical, series of mottled bruises, and one bullet wound marring his white skin. The shape of his body, in general, she thought (and certainly didn't tell him) was pretty pleasant to look at, in spite of her embarrassment. The muscularity was hard earned, not from hours and hours at the gym, but from strenuous work and, most likely, play as well. She swallowed hard and slowly raised the book to her eye level, trying her best to pretend she hadn't noticed.

The Graverobber hesitantly went to put on his coat, left it unbuttoned, and picked up the meager pile of dirty laundry that consisted of a single change of clothes, and picked up Shilo's discarded dress, figuring a good wash would fade the bloodstains and would create at least a slightly more substantial load. "I'll be back," he said, and Shilo nodded her head almost violently.

It was a quick and, as usual, cheap load and took no longer than fifteen minutes so he was overjoyed, really, to immediately pull on his shirt, which now had a slight tear in the seam, but for now it was almost unnoticeable. It would probably be at least a month before he'd need a new one. And fuck it felt good to wear something clean.

Shilo was able to look at him when he returned, and after he cleaned his teeth (who said a drug dealer couldn't floss? He may not shower frequently enough, but there was no excuse for a lack of dental hygiene) he took off his coat and boots and asked her, "Do you think you can sleep tonight?"

She lowered the book for a moment and looked at him seriously. "No," she told him. "I really don't even want to try tonight."

The Graverobber wasn't the least bit surprised, and not troubled enough to try to convince her otherwise. "All right," he told her. "I'm not really tired either. Not much of a sleeper." With that he grabbed East of Eden from his box and settled next to her on the mattress, well it was his, and stretched out his legs, in contrast to Shilo, who still sat curled up, and after she finished Of Mice and Men she grabbed for his copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

After several hours, sunlight seeped through the window and as he stood to draw the blinds, he turned to Shilo and said, "You do realize of course that you'll be coming in to work with me?"

Shilo raised her eyebrows. "You really think I'm stupid, don't you?" she said, folding the book to her chest.

"Just checking."