The Line Between

by Tosca Lee

  “Thanks,” I murmur, pulling the edge of the blanket up over my nose, too conscious of the gun case at my feet.

  I sit there awkwardly in the weird twilight of the storm as he closes his eyes. Unsure if I should say good night. Waiting for any indication of a snore. Wondering how I’m supposed to sleep this close to a man. A gun. A deadly disease.

  “Just so you know,” he says, not looking at me, “we’re here because of the weather.”

  “Okay,” I say, not sure what he’s getting at.

  “My mother raised me to be a gentleman. You’re safe.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that.

  “You’re not going to get in your sleeping bag?” I ask.

  “Nah. Besides, I’ve got passenger number two curled up with me.”

  We lie in the semidarkness, wind blowing through the slats of the barn, and I start to think he might be asleep when he asks quietly, “Who’s Jackie?”

  I stiffen. Surprise—and then pain—stab through me at the sound of her name.

  How would he even know to ask?

  “You said her name earlier, when you were sleeping.”

  I look away.

  If my lies are none of his business, the truth is even less so. But somehow, to refuse to acknowledge her seems tantamount to denying her existence in this world. A form of murder and blasphemy at once.

  “She’s my sister.” I whisper.

  The last word comes out unevenly. I clamp my hand over my mouth beneath the blanket. My breath shudders out my nostrils and I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears. Against the sounds fighting to get out like so many demons even as I fight to hold them in.

  Without a word, Chase shifts in his seat. Lifts the warm bundle of floppy ears and big feet curled against him over the console and, nudging aside the edge of the blanket, lays him against me.

  I wrap my arms around the puppy and clutch him close, sobbing as he licks my cheek.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  * * *

  Trust me.

  My first thought at Magnus’s appearance had been that she’d betrayed me. But of course she had to have known he was there.

  Trust me.

  Or was it possible she meant my pending marriage? That she really believed it was for the best and all would be well?

  No. She’d been too careful in our one-sided conversation, interrupting me before I could betray myself, my plan for us to leave. A plan she’d never committed to, I reminded myself.

  I was desperate to talk to her, to find out what had happened in Des Moines. What she meant.

  Trust me.

  But there would be no opportunity for me to speak to Jackie alone with the frenzied preparations for my wedding under way.

  That afternoon, I joined Rosella and her zealous minions in the pantry—a giant Quonset hut filled with wall-to-wall shelves of everything from canned carrots, pears, and peppers to whole cobs of corn—trying to feign interest in plans for my wedding banquet.

  I tried on the white dress Jackie had worn for her wedding in the living room of the Factory. Stood like a mannequin as Iris and several others tucked and pinned it, all the while discussing whether it needed longer sleeves. Was told I was expected at a private session with the midwife after dinner for a private lecture on the marriage act—a thing I definitely did not want to think about and doubted I needed anyway, given all the stuff Shae had talked vividly and in great depth about before her initiation.

  Trust me.

  I had no chance to ask if Jackie’s plan included saving me from my wedding night. Would she think it was petty for me to worry about a few nights when she had weathered nearly five years?

  I showed up for work at the office, not having been told to do otherwise, and Magnus threw open his door.

  “There she is. Isn’t she a beautiful bride-to-be?” Magnus beamed so that even Elder Decaro, sorting through his mail, politely agreed.

  “Wynter,” he said, crooking his finger at me. “A word?”

  I schooled my expression and followed him into his office, heart knocking against my ribs as he shut the door behind us.

  “I feel like a boy,” he said softly, lifting my fingers to his mouth. I forced a slight smile as he dragged my nails across his lower lip. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about what you said. About our kiss. About everything that’s about to happen and has already.”

  “I thought you would,” I managed. I glanced toward the door. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be alone . . .”

  “What are they going to say? Besides. They’re right out there. Did you meet with the midwife?”

  “Not, um, yet.”

  “Good. Don’t.” His thumb traced my mouth, gently forcing it open. “We’ll be like Adam and Eve in the garden. Two innocents exploring with no knowledge of good or evil. Get lots of sleep until then. Of course, you’ll be in Penitence tomorrow night . . .”

  “What?” I said, startled.

  “You’re marrying the Interpreter, Wynter,” he said, frowning. “You can’t expect to come to my bed without it.”

  As though I were the one who needed cleansing from my sins.

  “Did . . . Jaclyn do the same?” I asked. Was she aware of this? I’d still been living in the girls’ barrow when she’d married Magnus and I had no idea how she’d spent the night before her wedding.

  “Of course.” He smiled lazily and then leaned down to whisper against my ear. “I’ll make sure they bring you an extra pillow.”

  My skin prickled all the way down my arm as I quickly calculated the hours until my fast would start tomorrow.

  Whatever Jaclyn had planned, it would have to happen before then.

  He was murmuring something, his arm winding around my waist. But the instant he started to nuzzle my neck, I jerked back, hand flat against his chest.

  He stared at me, stunned, and I caught my breath in horror. But in that fleeting instant as I took in the shock on his face, I thought, He sees this is a mistake. That I don’t want him and never will.

  He grabbed me by the wrist. Yanked me hard against him.

  “You. Don’t get. To do that,” he hissed before pressing his mouth against mine, forcing his tongue between my lips.

  I struggled against him, fighting to breathe as he pulled me toward the desk and then shoved me down against it.

  “Who knows,” he said, breath hot in my ear, his weight smashing me against the cold mahogany. “Maybe I’ll check on you myself.”

  I scrabbled as he grabbed my wrists, papers flying to the floor. “But we’re not—we won’t be married,” I said raggedly, barely able to hear myself over the hammer of my heart.

  “No one would ever know.”

  He shoved back and pulled me up to face him, fingers biting into my arm. And I thought, This is what the face of Satan looks like.

  “Pull yourself together. Fix your hair before you leave,” he said, turning away to snatch up a paper from the floor.

  I straightened my blouse with shaking hands, unable to quiet the tremor quaking along my chin as I smoothed back my hair.

  I barely nodded at Magnolia, who admonished me to enjoy my wedding plans. Outside, I hurried blindly through the yard past the barrows to the barn, where I curled up behind a hay bale as the walls closed in.

  • • •

  THE NEXT DAY, I pointed out my few personal possessions that were to be moved by Iris to the second bedroom in Magnus and Jackie’s barrow. I said good-bye to each item in my mind, resolved that I would never see them again. I had no intention of sleeping a single night beneath that roof or on the new bed delivered from town that morning.

  I had just over seventeen hours. Seventeen hours to save if not my life, then my dignity, my body, and whatever part of my soul was attached to it.

  Where was Jackie?

  With each hour, panic rose inside me until I was light-headed, my vision spotting until I barely recognized my own hands cutting the stuffed zucchini on my prenuptial plate
that evening.

  At 9 p.m., I entered Penitence between two Guardians.

  A half hour later, I heard the slide of a desk chair as the Admitter prepared to leave for the night.

  The minute his footsteps faded up the stairs, I struck the Testament from the altar and tore the picture of Magnus from the wall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  * * *

  I jolt awake a short time later to headlights bouncing off the rear- and side-view mirrors, blinding me the instant I open my eyes.

  The dog is in the driver’s seat, front paws against the window. He growls and then gives a high-pitched bark.

  Male voices outside. One of them irate, the other low and even.

  I shove up, cheeks cold in the frigid air, twist around to squint at the two shadows standing in the twin beams filling the barn. Chase stands with his palms up in front of him. A second figure is holding a shotgun trained on Chase’s chest.

  I drop down behind the headrest, heart pounding as the puppy barks again and again. I grab and pull him against me, conscious of the gun at my feet.

  I could never use it.

  Could I?

  I hear Chase talking. Glance at the side-view mirror. A truck idles mere feet from the entrance, blocking us in. If something happens to Chase, I can’t even pull out of here—assuming I don’t get shot through the window first.

  I wiggle out of the sleeping bag, reach back for the carrier, fully prepared to make a run for that truck.

  The voices come closer, around the other side of the car. An instant later, a man in a surgical mask and black cap peers into the driver’s-side window. The dog goes crazy. Grabbing the carrier, I yank open the door, instantly on my feet in the chilly air.

  “Wynter!” Chase says. “It’s all right.”

  But now a whole new series of suspicions has crept into my mind in the space of the last second alone.

  That Chase knows this place. That he’s in league with the guy following me. They’ve been working together.

  “This is Mr. Ingold,” Chase says. “This is his property.”

  I move around the back of the Jeep, clutching the carrier against me as Chase scoops up the dog.

  Mr. Ingold is a thin man with age spots on his face. He nods at me, shotgun lowered at his side.

  “Hi,” I say. The farmer nods.

  “Snow’s supposed to stop sometime tonight,” he says, glancing from me back to Chase. “You should be on your way by morning.”

  “We will,” Chase says. “We won’t be any trouble. By the way, do you recognize this dog?”

  “No,” the farmer says, shaking his head. “Can’t say I do. I wouldn’t be picking up strays, myself, seeing as how things are about to get scarce, but suit yourself.” He nods toward the entrance of the corncrib. “There’s a spigot on the west corner if you need fresh water.”

  “Thank you,” Chase says.

  Mr. Ingold starts to turn, then pauses. “Were you in Iraq?” he asks.

  “Afghanistan,” Chase says, then adds, “Welcome home, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Ingold says. “Good night, now.”

  Mr. Ingold carries the shotgun to the truck. A few seconds later, he pulls away, his pickup cutting through half a foot of snow, leaving darkness in his wake.

  “What did you mean, ‘Welcome home’?” I ask.

  “Did you see his hat? Guy’s a Vietnam vet. They didn’t get the kind of respect or homecoming the military do today.”

  I’m only vaguely aware of the Vietnam War and have no idea what kind of homecoming the military receive today.

  “Isn’t it . . . a little late?”

  “Yeah,” he says, looking at the carrier in my arms. “It is.”

  “Why’d he ask if you were in Iraq?” I ask as he leans in to start the Jeep.

  “He saw the decal on my rear window,” he says, setting the dog on the ground.

  I back up, peer at the eagle, globe, and anchor in the corner of the window.

  “What is it?”

  “The emblem of the United States Marine Corps.”

  I also have only a vague idea what a Marine is, and only because of a TV series Ken watches.

  Chase pats his knee and ruffs the puppy’s short-haired head till it shakes with a flip-flap of ears. “C’mon, buddy,” he says, play running to the entrance, looking over his shoulder as the dog bounds after him. “Need to go outside? I know I do.”

  I return the carrier to the back and watch them follow the truck’s tire tracks out into the darkness. I walk out to the entrance as they disappear and I stop to stare up at the sky. No stars. Just the pale smear of moon through the clouds, the slanted flight of the snow falling silently to the ground. It reminds me of Iowa. Of the dark within the walls, from which we couldn’t see even the nearest headlights passing at the end of the long Enclave drive. There were just the planes, flying into or out of Des Moines. I used to watch them ascend to the heavens at dawn on my way to the henhouse, wonder where all those people were going.

  Chase comes jogging back, the puppy scampering on his heels. They chase each other on the dirt floor of the corncrib for a few minutes. I pick up an old corn cob, bend down, and show it to the dog. Toss it a little ways.

  “Go get it,” Chase says, pointing. The dog looks at him, bewildered. Then at me like I’m out of my mind.

  “Was he upset?” I ask. “The farmer?”

  Chase shrugs. “Startled is more like it. Can’t say I blame him—I wouldn’t be too keen to find someone else’s vehicle in my barn.”

  “He held a gun on you.”

  “He didn’t want to use it. Just needed to know we weren’t out to steal from him or hurt anyone.” He retrieves the cob, tries tossing it again. This time the dog runs after it then stops, as though forgetting what it was doing.

  “Get it,” Chase says, crouched on his heels. “Go get it, buddy!”

  “Hungry?” I ask, and walk back to the Jeep. My legs feel thick and stupid, my neck stiff. I root around in one of the grocery bags, pull out a piece of white cheddar, an apple, a box of Julie’s gluten-free crackers, and offer them to him. Chase gets back in and relegates the dog—who is far too curious about the impromptu picnic—to the back. He holds the box of crackers toward me. I shake my head.

  “You originally from Colorado?” he asks.

  “Yup.”

  I note the time. Nearly ten o’clock. I was supposed to be in Fort Collins by now. Yet here we are, barely west of the Iowa border. I pull out my phone, redial Ashley’s number. I need to let him know I won’t make it till tomorrow.

  This time it doesn’t even connect.

  “Since we’re both awake, can we leave?” I ask. Because we still have a lot of state to go.

  “There’s ice under that snow,” he says, handing a piece of apple back to the dog. “Four-wheel drive isn’t any help on ice—especially with idiots on a road we can barely see.”

  “How soon?” I ask.

  “We’ll see how warm it is in the morning. You always this jumpy?”

  As though in response, I reach back for my bag, fish around for my medication, which I haven’t taken in more than twenty-four hours. Opening the bottle, I pour out a tablet and then look inside.

  Only five pills left. Five pills between me and my next crippling obsession about my eternal fate. Or possibly Truly’s. Or whether I’ll accidentally kill her with my own negligence, or if I’m sick and don’t know it yet, or my tried-and-true favorite: what more I could have done to save Mom from dying.

  “I don’t suppose Walgreens is going to be open tomorrow,” I murmur.

  “Only to people willing to fight off looters and addicts. You might want to start tapering down.”

  I break the pill in half, and then one half in half again. Take three-quarters of a tablet and put the remaining quarter back.

  “Anxiety?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Any triggers I should know about?”

  “Yeah. Vivaldi
.”

  He chuckles, the sound warm. “I thought you looked a little twitchy back there.”

  I smile slightly.

  He looks out the window for a second, then back at me. “You know if you get attacked, the best thing you can do is just get away. Or do everything you can to inflict enough damage . . . to get away.”

  “Okay,” I say, not sure why he’s telling me this.

  “Which means you can’t worry about stuff like that case back there.”

  It’d be good advice on any other day.

  “What’s in there, anyway?”

  “Insulin,” I say. “For my mom.”

  • • •

  I CAN’T SLEEP. Can’t get comfortable. Can’t help listening for the sound of another car. Checking the rearview mirror.

  Sometime after midnight I shimmy out of the sleeping bag as silently as I can, shove my feet into my cold shoes. Glance at Chase, who hasn’t moved in the last hour. The puppy lifts his head. I stroke his ears.

  “Go outside?” I whisper, gesturing over my shoulder. He doesn’t move. I don’t blame him.

  I grab my gloves, let myself out of the Jeep. Close the door with a quiet click.

  I pause at the entrance to the corncrib. Stare at the snow outside, the drift sloping to the earthen floor at my feet. If I stand still enough, I can hear it falling. The barely discernable pat-pat-pat of the flakes as they join the others on the ground like the dull glitter of burnt-out stars. A sound amplified by darkness, the open entrance of the corncrib, the canopy of clouds.

  No cars. No city or farmhouse lights. Not even a barking dog.

  On any other night I’d think the snow was beautiful. Tonight it feels like a shroud.

  Squatting on the south side of the barn in the snow (I’ve been doing way too much of this outdoors lately), I debate whether to wake Chase. The wind has quit blowing. The Jeep has big tires. If we stick to gravel roads, shouldn’t we be okay?