Little Grove
The alarm blares, shrill and cutting. Evan groans as he rolls over, slapping at it without opening his eyes. He wants to sleep longer – like he used to when he was a kid – but he’s not a kid anymore, not by Little Grove’s standards. He’s seventeen and that means he has to act like an adult, which means cracking open his eyes to try and peer through the gloom. Outside, the sky is black. Murky darkness seeps into the room. It’s eleven in the morning and the world has not yet woken up. That’s a good thing, he thinks, hauling himself out of bed. The carpet is damp under his bare feet. When he flicks on the bathroom light, it’s to be met with the sight of dark, damp patches forming on his ceiling. At least the mold isn’t back, he thinks, splashing water on his face, pulling his hair back, grabbing his rain slicker from the hook on the back of the door. The muck boots come next, too big and too bright, a glaring splash of orange against the gloom of the world. He hates orange, but it’s a good color to wear in Little Grove. People are more likely to find you this way.
