by Nick Lake
She rolled her eyes.
He gave her the lighter.
“Cigarette,” she said.
“Oh,” he said. “Didn’t realize you…”
But she didn’t want to smoke it—actually, she kind of did, it had been a shitty day, but that wasn’t the point of asking for it. She didn’t want to use up lighter fluid, was all. She lit the cigarette he handed her and took a deep drag; blew the smoke up her makeshift chimney, where it mingled with the stars above.
Then she held the glowing red cherry of it to the moss and leaves, until they caught; she let Bob take a drag, then moved the cigarette to the moss again, and repeated until the tinder was crackling—and then she felt the familiar rush as flame leaped from the pile like a miracle. Like a magic trick, like a genie, like none of those things at all, like only itself, hungry for stuff to make into flame and smoke, and the bigger sticks and twigs started to burn too.
She had been thinking about drinking water. She’d seen a concave stone, and wondered about using it as a sort of bowl, putting it by the fire for snow to melt in it. But the stone would get hot, and each time they’d have to cool it before they could hold it and drink from it, and you needed six liters of snow for every liter of water.
The only solution—or the only solution she could think of at that moment—was her boots. They were good ones; leather, waterproof. Her dad was big on the importance of reliable footwear. She usually hated that.
Anyway. It was going to taste gross, and she’d have to dry the boots after, or get frostbite, but it was all she had.
She took the boots off, keeping her socked feet close to the fire. She had cleared the snow from the ground under the shelter, so she crawled to the edge and packed the white stuff into her boots and then set them down by the fire, almost in the fire, as close as she dared.
“You can’t be ser—” began Bob.
“Yes, I am,” she said.
He pulled a face, then nodded.
A bootful of snow equaled a toeful of water, as she’d expected, and by the time she’d done it again and again and Aidan had drunk—first, she made sure of it; water was as important to him as it was to anyone—and she and Bob, they were all heavy-lidded with sleep.
“No food tonight,” she said. “We’ll deal with that tomorrow.” Even though she was hungry. Even though her stomach was a twisting beast within her.
“But first…,” said Bob slowly. “You were going to…tell me what those men wanted. What’s…happening.”
Shit.
She took a breath, psyching herself up. She glanced at Aidan, but his face was blank.
Oh, thanks for the help, she thought.
Then she turned back to Bob, and his eyelids were fluttering, and he keeled very softly to the side, leaning against Aidan, and was asleep.
The man’s breath came gentle and slow.
Emily felt a loosening inside her. Ridiculous, really: she was still going to have to tell him tomorrow.
But, then, anything could happen between now and tomorrow. She watched him, and Aidan too, until Aidan’s eyes closed also, and his breathing too went soft and easy.
She closed her own eyes, but the flames were still there. Flames against a wall of metal. Miss Brady dragging her by the arm, away from the building as it went up. The wail of a wail of a wail of a siren—that going-nowhere repetition of it; insistent. And another too, sirens weaving into each other, both fire trucks in the tiny town.
And new things: the burst of blood from Bob’s arm, spritzed into the icy air by the bullet. The shriek of the man she’d shot in the leg.
She sighed, and stood—moving to the edge of the shelter, near the entrance.
She went through some simple stretches. Hamstring, calf, thighs. Lunges and reaches. She needed more room to move. She stood in the opening, looked out. A light snow was falling. She imagined herself in the clearing just outside, turning in the snow, dancing. Warming herself up. But her boots were still drying by the fire, and anyway, she hadn’t danced in a year.
When she turned back, she saw Aidan sitting up, looking at her expectantly.
“Go on,” he said.
“No.”
“For me. I’ve never seen you do it.”
She looked down at him, sighed, put on a serious face, and did a perfect arabesque in the doorway. He clapped and laughed, and she bowed.
“More,” he said.
“No. Really, no.” The sadness had crept in, like cold. The sadness that she didn’t get to do it anymore, to dance with Jeremy, to be lifted by him into the air, as if she might fly.
Aidan nodded. “OK.” They were speaking quietly—Bob was snoring. Aidan stood, careful not to disturb Bob as he moved, and raised his arms—then did his own arabesque, veering off balance; then holding it still.
This time Emily laughed.
Then she saw Aidan give a little shiver, the fire’s warmth now fading. Was that pain in her chest love? She supposed it was.
She pulled him close, put her arms around him. She hadn’t known, until he’d arrived, that she had always wanted him. Always wanted someone to love, to protect. Always.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Really?”
He closed his eyes. “Why would I be?” he said. “You’re with me.”
He trusts me, she thought. It warmed her, everywhere, but at the same time it speared her heart with ice.
What if she couldn’t save him?
What if she could—and he was gone, and she would never see him again?
Whatever happened, something would be taken from her.
She closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to sleep—they could sleep, but not her. She needed to listen out for the men who would be coming after them.
CHAPTER 12
EMILY WAS IN the studio, on the springy wooden floor. She was dancing with Jeremy. Swan Lake.
They were alone, the lights low, night pressing dark at the windows. Practicing; always practicing. So that their movements would be perfect, so that their pain and tiredness would translate into grace.
They were alone, but it wasn’t romantic, it was focused. He’d been in her gymnastics class—Emily’s mom took her every Saturday morning. Jeremy’s mom taught ballet, was once second soloist with the Chicago ballet. She’d seen Emily doing floorwork at the start of their class—the choreography in her routine, the leaps and spins—and told Emily’s mom she had to join Jeremy’s ballet lessons.
“She has talent,” Jeremy’s mom had said as they walked to the car afterward, past the Olive Garden, crisp Minnesotan air cooling the sweat on Emily’s skin.
“Yes,” said Emily’s mom. “She’s very strong. Flexible.”
“No,” said Jeremy’s mom. “I mean, she can dance.”
Emily’s mom made a face like she didn’t understand. “We’re not…um,” she said. “My husband had to leave the army. Ballet sounds kind of expensive.”
“I’ll teach her for free,” said Jeremy’s mom. “If I didn’t, it would be a crime.”
That was why Emily was here, gliding with Jeremy across the floor, pirouetting, again and again, until it was right. His mom—Francesca—said she was good enough to audition for Chicago or even New York. Already she and Jeremy were going to exhibitions, dancing as a couple.
“Concentrate,” said Jeremy as she slipped, went down on her knee.
“Sorry,” she said. “Let’s go again.”
He put his arm around her, their fingers intertwined, both of them reaching up, and then he swung her out and around and she was spinning away from his touch—
Only, no, because the room dissolved around her, the floor fell away, and she was in freefall for a moment, until a hand was on her again, a proprietorial hand, not gentle like Jeremy’s but squeezing her
, squeezing her behind, a hand that said, you are mine….She was in the corridor leading to the locker rooms, after the second game of the season, and Brad Mecklenburg, linebacker, was grabbing her and turning her to face him, grabbing her just above the line of her skirt, in a way that made her superconscious of how short it was, her stupid pleated cheerleader’s skirt.
“Hey, Minnesota,” he said.
“Hey, asshole,” she said, pulling away from him.
Rain clouds crossed the blue sky of his eyes. Little muscles in his jaw twitched.
“Quit playing hard to get,” he said.
“I’m not playing.” She could still feel his fingers on her, though they weren’t anymore. He had his arms crossed. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His helmet swung from one hand.
She glanced around. There was no one. The corridor was empty. It was only afternoon, but the rectangle of outdoor air, behind them, was already black, the sun long since set, the stadium lights shooting down a shaft of sodium glow. She couldn’t believe he was hassling her again.
“You’re going to prom with me, Vasquez,” said Brad.
“It’s Perez, and no, I’m not,” she said.
He laughed. “We’ll see.” He took a step toward her, smiling now, a smile she could tell he thought was charming, a smile she could tell he’d used before. “I usually get what I want,” he said.
Emily was sure he did. Even Rachel, the cheerleading coach, seemed to think that was half of what they were there for. “Cheerleading teaches team spirit,” she’d said. “And core strength and athleticism and discipline. It will look great on your college applications.” And then she’d winked. “And, of course, it significantly raises your chances of getting a boyfriend on the football team and a killer date for prom.”
The other girls had laughed.
Emily had not.
Now Brad took another step forward, put out his hands, and held her by the waist. Tight. Everyone else seemed to have left—it was as if the whole stadium was empty. She felt one hand move down, and he was so strong, and she tried to twist away from him because no—
This wasn’t what had happened—
He’d sneered and walked off—that time anyway—
This wasn’t her memory—
But then the corridor melted into blackness and cold and the texture of pine needles, all around her, and she heard Aidan call out her name in distress; someone was shaking her, the men from the government, and, “No, no, you can’t have him, leave us alone, I swear to God I’ll—” she shouted, but when she opened her eyes fully and let the light in, she saw it was Bob crouching over her.
The fire was low and smoking. Aidan was whimpering, curled into her side. His skin was near-blue with cold; he felt trembling and weak against her. Soft sunlight, coming through the branches above, made specks and sparkles on everything.
Bob held something in front of Emily’s face. Something small and orange.
She peered at it. The SPOT tracker.
Oh.
CHAPTER 13
“WHAT’S THIS?” BOB said.
“It’s a SPOT tracker.”
“I know it’s a SPOT tracker. It’s my SPOT tracker. What I want to know is what it was doing in your goddamn pocket.” He was sweating, despite the cold; pale-looking.
She looked down; touched her jeans. “You’re frisking me now?”
She felt Aidan move in closer.
“I wanted to know why those men came after us with frickin’ assault rifles. You said you’d explain, but I haven’t heard any explanation coming out of your mouth.” It was about the longest thing he’d said since they’d crashed.
“It’s…hard to put into words. And anyway, you fell asleep as I was about to tell you. Last night.”
He barked a short, unamused laugh. “You know we could have been rescued by now if I’d just pressed a button on this thing?”
“No,” she said. “The men with assault rifles would just have come quicker.”
A pause.
“Why? What did you do? I mean, apart from burning down the goddamn school.”
She shook her head. “It was the stadium,” she said. “Not even that. Not really. A locker room. And apart from that, I didn’t do anything.”
His forehead creased. “Someone else did?”
“Yeah.”
“Your brother?”
“He didn’t do anything, either.”
“Then what?” asked Bob.
“I did do something,” said Aidan quietly. “I existed.”
“Aidan, you don’t have to—”
“I think I do, probably,” said Aidan, teeth chattering very lightly.
He was sitting now, hugging his knees to his chest, all vulnerable little boy, his skin so pale, and Emily wanted to grab hold of the rock beside her and pull it out like a concertina from the cliff and stretch it around him, cocoon him in stone, so nothing could ever harm him. To set light to the whole forest, to keep him warm.
Silly, really.
She reached out to bring him into a hug, but he shook his head.
Bob was looking between them, from one to the other, bemused. “Are you…were you…was someone hurting the kid?” he asked. “Your…f—” He shook his head. “Your family?”
Father, he’d been going to say.
“No,” said Emily. “But they will hurt him if they catch him.”
“Your family?”
“No. The men in black.”
“White,” said Bob.
“What? Oh. Yeah. Whatever.”
Bob sat down heavily, still holding the SPOT tracker. “I really don’t understand what’s going on,” he said.
Aidan sighed. A meaningful sigh.
Emily sent him a look: You don’t have to.
He sent one back: It’s OK.
That was the thing about looks. You could use them to speak with. They were a kind of universal communication. Emily liked that. She wasn’t big on speaking. Her mom was always doing it—narrating everything. That wasn’t Emily’s style. She liked to find other ways to communicate. Her eyes. Dancing: the movement of her body through space.
Fire.
Though that had been kind of an accident, and totally Jeremy’s fault.
OK, not really.
“I think,” said Aidan, “I think I can show you.”
Bob was watching him closely now.
Everything was very still. There was bright light outside the shelter; but inside, it was as if the moment before dawn persisted, everything dull and shadowy, gravid with the day about to be revealed. Everything shaded by the pine-needled branches.
Aidan closed his eyes; rippled with effort. She knew that what he did was a reflexive survival instinct; it was hard for him to override it like this.
Then his outlines, the silhouette made in space by his body, the actual boy shape of him, began to shimmer, to heat-haze, to blur.
CHAPTER 14
AIDAN MOVED OUTWARD from his own self, and his shape altered, became strange and hard to understand: hard to fit into your mind, because there were no containers, no boxes in there, in your mind, for him to go into, to be framed by, no references at all to pin him in place.
Part of the problem with understanding it, Emily thought, was that movies always used bits of animals to represent them: tentacles, bug eyes, that sort of thing. People could imagine only things that corresponded to their own world’s physics, its biology, its system of structures. Whereas the reality was just…was just…something that you almost couldn’t see, even, because you had never seen anything like it, were not equipped in any way to delineate it in vision.
Aidan had said, in her bedroom, soon after they met: “My real form does not fit into your ontology.”
She’d had to look that one up.
Was there an impression of a head? Eyes? It was hard to tell. She remembered his ship, how she had known right away what it was—and not because it looked like any of the photos, like any of the movies. No: she had known because its corners had been in the wrong places, its edges had not made sense.
Bob was opening and closing his mouth, and he, at least, looked like an animal, like a fish dumbly kissing water, as he scrambled backward to the edge of the shelter.
Then Aidan—the thing that had been Aidan—retracted back inward, folded, a time-lapse video of origami, into the form of a little boy again.
There was a long silence.
“What. The— H-h-he’s…an alien?” said Bob.
“Not at all,” said Aidan. “I’m me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re an alien.”
That was when Bob passed out.
CHAPTER 15
EMILY CROUCHED OVER Bob. She didn’t like having to tax his mind like this, with the strain of something so big—and now that she was close to him, she didn’t like the heat that was coming from his skin, either, or the pallor of it.
She didn’t like that at least two men with very large guns were probably close to their position, right now, drawn by the thinning smoke from their dying fire, and Bob was unconscious.
How long would it have taken to traverse that snow plain they’d surfed down on their plane wing? A couple of hours? If anything, the men should be here already, which meant they might well be outside, waiting for them to make a move. Either that or they were regrouping at the crash site, taking things slow. Being cautious, believing she still had the gun.
Whatever: they knew that they were chasing an injured man and two kids. They wouldn’t be worried. Like good hunters, they could take their time.
Emily didn’t like any of this.
When the pilot opened his eyes, she helped him to sit up. He kept glancing over at Aidan, who was sitting very quietly.
“I’m feverish,” Bob said. “I must be hallucinating.” He was touching his arm, where the skin was red and mottled.
“You’re feverish,” she said. “Yes. But you’re not hallucinating.”