By Susanne Alethea Larssen

She was dying. He saw it the moment she walked into the little cafe.

He saw it in her skin, in her eyes, in the way she moved.

But the surest sign was the boots—long, red patent leather boots that clicked sharply against the dirty tiles.

She moved as if her hips were unhinged beneath that tight skirt.

But the boots—ah, the boots.

~

His sister, Enid, had worn boots like those when she came home that night.

“Whore boots,” their father had roared, and their mother had cracked under the force of his voice.

The boy had crawled under the table, wedging himself between chair and table leg so he couldn’t see them—and they couldn’t see him.

“My daughter is a whore.”

His father’s voice shattered glass and furniture.

“Everyone wears them. Dad, please.”

His sister was screaming. Loud enough to hurt the boy’s ears.

But she wasn’t strong enough.

Their mother tried to help. Pleading, her voice splintered like a shelter in a storm.

She fell. Her words came out stained with blood, red on the worn linoleum.

“Whore.”

The sound of a punch. His sister’s scream snapped off mid-note.

“Oh God, Harry. Oh, God,” his mother whimpered, crawling on all fours to nudge Enid’s motionless body.

“She’s faking,” their father growled, dragging their mother by the hair until she folded in on herself, like grief had pulled a single thread and everything came undone.

He kicked Enid’s legs—the red whore boots.

Enid didn’t move.

“Goddamn it, girl,” he snarled, grabbing and shaking her. When he let go, her head hit the floor with a dull thud. 

“Harry, we must call an ambulance.” Their mother’s voice was an SOS flare in the kitchen. 

Their father pressed his finger into the side of Enid’s neck, like he was digging for a sign of life.

“No pulse,” he muttered. “No damn pulse.”  

Their mother’s eyes found the boy under the table.

“Harry, Jonah saw everything.”

Jonah crawled to her, buried his face in her softness, in the warmth, in the safety.

Their father lifted Enid. “Stay where you are,” he barked. Enid dangled in his arms, loose-limbed and too quiet. He stomped out. The floor swayed under him.

When he came back, dirt and clay clung to his clothes.

Their mother scrambled up. “Harry, what have you done? We need to call the police.”

Another blow sent her to the floor.

“She ran away. We haven’t seen her since. That’s what you’ll say if you don’t want to end up next to her.”

His mother nodded, weeping.

“You hear me, boy?” He yanked Jonah up by the hair, lifting him clean off the ground.

“I understand,” Jonah sobbed.

But she hadn’t run away.

Enid would’ve taken him and their mother with her. She’d promised.

~

Now, the woman moved toward the door. Enid was next to him all of a sudden. He could feel the cold radiating from her. 

“That’s my boots,” she whispered, her icy breath against his skin. But not long now. He would soon have her outfit, and she would come back, and her breath would be warm again. He found her skirt last month. 

He left the money on the table and followed the woman with the red boots into the rain.

The red boots showed him the way. She was dying, and her life force would seep into the boots. Help his sister to return. But only if he could find all the clothes she’d worn that night.

Especially the red whore boots.

Enid had to come back.

She just had to.