The Teething Ring
by Beth Cato
Stars still existed.
After six months in the gutted, unceasing ash and smoke of the city, Jessie had forgotten how beautiful and colorful the world could be, even at night.
“Maybe I was afraid that everything was destroyed,” she told Aaron, “That we’d escape the city and the forests would be scorched, too. That everything would be gone, even the stars. Instead, it’s even more beautiful than I remember.”
In reply, the baby burbled and waved his arms. He lay on a blanket beside her, one fist clutching a rubbery teething ring in the shape of a contorted, circular giraffe. It had been one of many items Jessie had selected from the abandoned home they had taken shelter in for two weeks. Jessie felt stronger, more assured of their trek south. They had food in strict rations. They had medicine. Aaron was dressed in four full layers of pink feetsy-jammies and wore real cloth diapers, something that still seemed like an indulgence even though the diapers were quickly stained.
