"A Red Jacket," or "Come Home, Little Brother," by Edith A.

     I held the red jacket out to the little boy, showing it to him.
     “Come here, little brother. Look, I have found your jacket. Come put it on, you must be cold.” Slowly he emerged from behind the tree, toddling over to where I stood. He wore a dirty long-sleeved shirt with frayed arms, and jeans muddy from the wet ground.
     “Hello, sister,” he said. He stood cautiously in front of me, eyes focused on my face, but aside from that, looking as though he might startle and dash away at any moment or movement.
     “Hello. Oh, your jeans are filthy and wet.” I surveyed him, taking in the little scratches on his face and hands, the holes in his shirt. “Here, put on your jacket; it is warm.”
     He reached out in a shy, nervous sort of way, one skinny little arm tugging gently on the fabric of the jacket sleeve, pulling it from my hands, holding it in his. He clutched it to his chest, but made no move to put it on.
     “Put on your coat, brother. Aren’t you cold?” He shook his head no, gazing up at me.
     “Well, come on then. Let’s go inside.” I led him into the pile of rubble, stepping over the little gap at the edge of it where I had moved bits and pieces aside to retrieve the red jacket.
     We came to a circle, near the center of the rubble. I sat down on a chunk of metal and motioned for him to sit on the broken bit of mattress across from me.         In between us was a cast iron black pot sitting on the dirt. I handed him a cup.
     “Here, little brother, it is your special cup. Take some soup from the pot. The fire has kept it warm for us.”
     He took the cup, but made no move to take anything with it, instead curling his hands around the clay and gazing up at me mournfully.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     “Hello, brother.” I studied him carefully. A beat of silence. Then,
     “Oh well, I suppose you’re not hungry.” He shook his head: no, he was not.
     “Well, we can eat later. Let’s play a game,” I decided.
     I stood up and held his hand, guiding him over to another space among the rubble. This time I handed him a doll.
     “Look, it is your favorite doll that mother made for you. Here is mine, too. Let’s play with them.”
     He took his doll, examining it, feeling the fabric, the yarn hair, the beaded eyes. Then he passed it to the hand still holding the cup, the same hand attached to the arm which had his red jacket folded over it, and shook his head no.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     His voice sounded like an echo.
     “Hello, brother,” I responded. “Well, there must be something we can do. What about sleep? Tomorrow we can begin other adventures.” I led him by his
free hand over to another clearing in the rubble, passing him a pillow. He tucked it under his armpit, the same one attached to the jacket hanging arm, the doll holding cup held by a hand.
     He shook his head.
     I stumbled, almost falling. My vision was blurry.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     I was shaking my head to try and clear it, falling to my knees. “No,” I breathed.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     The world went dark.

   
     The boy was walking through the woods, trying to find something, anything, really, that could be helpful. The disaster had passed, and now here he was left, alone, searching through the rubble, scrounging for anything useful.
     He came to the remains of a dwelling. It was spread out, but clearly had never belonged to a wealthy family. It also held a girl, wandering through the rubble.
     He watched her for a while, and as he watched, his heart grew heavy.
     Everyone who survived had lost their family in exchange. He buried his efficiently. This girl was not doing the same.
     He found that there was a young boy, presumably the strange girl’s younger brother, buried beneath a particularly large, heavy pile of rubble. All that was visible of his corpse was one side of his torso, along with his head. From hand
to arm to armpit to shoulder to head his dusty body was in open air. And the strange girl was crumbling. She moved around as if not in touch with her surroundings. When he caught a glimpse of her face, it was a blank slate, and he could see dried rivulets where old tears had cleared paths on her face free of dirt.
She was arranging his body, the boy realized, with old trinkets. A jacket, a mug, a doll. When she was done she collapsed over his body quite suddenly, as if her conscious and life had been instantaneously transported somewhere else, leaving her meat sack behind.
     He walked up to her cautiously. He knew what to do. He knew how to bring them back home.
     He came to stand beside the young boy’s corpse and tapped her shoulder. She was alive. She didn’t respond. He lifted her head, now.
     The lost girl turned her face up the rest of the way to look at the stranger before her, but her eyes were glazed and unknowing.
     “Wha?” she managed.
     “Hello, sister,” the bystander said. “Welcome home.