Race the Night

by Kirsten Hubbard

  The kids at the desert ranch had been more than family. They’d been allies, but also competitors. Now, they acted almost like strangers.

  Because Teacher was always watching.

  With her clipboard and stopwatch, writing down notes, clocking times. Measuring the kids against one another. Pinning their names against the wall, like the bugs on Jay’s board. Waiting to see who’d disobey her.

  Deciding what she’d take away next.

  Robin not being real was a relief, sometimes. Eider didn’t have to worry about losing her. She didn’t have to wonder if Robin had made it. What would have happened if she hadn’t. If somewhere on her journey west, she’d given up.

  The way Eider wanted to.

  Eider would never be a leader. She knew it—and Teacher did, too. So what was the point of doing anything anymore?

  The radio was broken. Eider had lost her fairytale book and her secret papers. The other kids would barely look at her. She couldn’t even explore—the Handyman had closed the gap. Teacher had taken everything away. There was no place left to look but inward.

  Just like Teacher had always wanted.

  After dinner one night, Eider took the long way back to her trailer.

  Overhead, the clouds were more spectacular than usual, edged in the ruddy light of sunset. Eider stopped to watch them. She only meant to pause for a moment, but she found she didn’t want to look away. Clouds were another type of Beyond, weren’t they? So close, and so far, all at the same time.

  For the first time in a long while, Eider felt at peace.

  She lifted both of her arms, opening her palms to the sky. The light edged her fingers, too. Almost as if the clouds, so many miles away, were touching her.

  The space between them doesn’t matter as long as they exist.

  She curled her hands into fists, taking the red light with them. And then, with her arms held out, she spun.

  When she stopped, she saw Linnet watching her.

  Eider shrugged and smiled sheepishly. She knew she’d probably looked ridiculous, but at least Linnet wasn’t the type to tease. Jay probably would have called her cloudface for the rest of her life.

  “Were you dancing?” Linnet asked.

  “Dancing?” Eider thought about it. “I guess I was, a little bit.”

  “I haven’t seen you dance in a long time.”

  Linnet’s voice was even more timid than usual. Eider remembered how sharp she’d been with her lately, and felt bad all over again. “Yeah,” Eider agreed quietly. “It has been a long time.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh…” Eider began, then stopped as tears stung her eyes. She wiped them with the back of her hand. “Oh, I don’t know. No reason.”

  Linnet kept staring at her, the strangest expression on her small face. Eider was the first to look away.

  “Linnet, do you remember what I said before? About drawing not being worth it?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Well, I was wrong,” Eider said. “Don’t stop drawing. Ever.”

  Later that night, the coyotes were overly excitable. Howling, barking, yip-yip-yipping. Eider lay in bed with her fists under her chin, eyes closed, listening to the cacophony. Trying to pick apart separate sounds. She was getting better at it—at least one Extrasensory lesson had stuck.

  Although when she thought about it, dance was also a kind of Extrasensory, wasn’t it? Somebody wrote the music. Somebody sang it and made the beats. Somebody sent it out, and Teacher’s radio captured it. And at the other end of all that space and time, Eider used it to move her body. The music in her head.

  “Eider?” As soft as a sigh.

  When Eider opened her eyes, she saw Linnet standing over her bed. “What?” she whispered.

  Shoulders hunched, Linnet glanced toward Avis, still sleeping. The younger girl really was like a baby mouse, Eider thought. Always frozen before the retreat. Trying her best not to act impatient, Eider patted the edge of her bed.

  Gingerly, Linnet sat. “I have something of yours.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure it’s yours—I mean, I saw you drop it….” In a flourish, Linnet whipped around her hand and shoved a paper at Eider.

  Not just any paper—the housing-development pamphlet.

  Eider grabbed it and stuffed it under her pillow. “When?”

  “A while ago,” Linnet said. “You were about to go on a walk, and you dropped your—you dropped something. I wanted to give it to you, but you’re always so busy….”

  “It’s okay.” Even the feel of the pamphlet made her heart beat faster. “Thank you. For not telling—” She paused. “You didn’t tell, right?”

  “Of course I didn’t!”

  Eider smiled a tiny bit. “Did you look at it?”

  Linnet was silent.

  “It’s really okay.”

  “Yes,” Linnet whispered. “It’s families.”

  “Yes,” Eider agreed.

  “One of them…they look like you.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “Like you and Robin.”

  Everything in Eider went still. “What?”

  Linnet glanced at Avis again, still sleeping, then back at Eider. “Robin,” Linnet whispered. “I remember her.”

  “You—you do?” Eider’s heart felt too big for her chest.

  Linnet nodded. “I—”

  Avis rolled over in bed. Linnet jumped to her feet and hurried into her own. A baby mouse, so easily scared. But maybe a little bit brave, too.

  Eider rolled over too, hugging her pillow. Her fingers gripped the pamphlet so tightly she knew she was bending it, but she didn’t care. She felt like crying. She felt like screaming. She felt like laughing—or like screaming with laughter until she burst into tears. Because now Eider knew. Now she knew for sure.

  Robin was real.

  THE PROBLEM WITH NOBODY TELLING YOU how big the world is—or was—is that you’d never guess it yourself.

  How big it is. Not only big: huge.

  A map means nothing when you can measure a continent in inches.

  A mile means little if you’re not sure you’ve walked one.

  They thought they could. Walk not only a mile, but many. They thought they could walk anywhere in the entire world on their own two feet. That everything they’d read about and heard about and imagined, even, was just past the horizon.

  They thought.

  Once upon a time, life was good. Teacher didn’t even have to remind them.

  But that was before Robin’s big tantrum.

  She’d always been stubborn. But ever since turning six, she acted out more and more. If she didn’t want to do something, she’d refuse, or demand to know why. She’d stamp her feet. She’d cry—sometimes on purpose.

  Crocodile tears, Teacher called them. “They’re make-believe. I don’t want to have to discipline you.”

  A clear threat, but easy to ignore. Discipline didn’t seem real back then.

  Neither did running away, though Eider and Robin talked about it time and again. Lying on their backs at the slabs, watching the night sky. Talking about families. Wondering when Beyond began—past the horizon, or right at the fence? It was fun to speculate about running away, but never an actual option.

  Until it was the only one.

  Like most of Robin’s tantrums, its spark was minor: something less than delicious at dinnertime. But this kicking, screaming explosion was in front of everyone. Not only Eider and the other kids, but also Teacher and the Handyman and Nurse, who just stood there wringing his hands.

  “I can cook something else,” he said.

  “No,” Teacher said. “Robin will finish her meal. She’s lucky to eat what she gets.”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” Robin shrieked. “You’re not my mother. You’re not my family.”

  Teacher grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. “That’s enough! Go to your trailer. We’ll figure out your discipline tomorrow.”
>
  That was all it took. Secretly, Eider and Robin gathered their things. They didn’t have packs; only cloth bags with handles, worn thin. Eider had hoped the bags would last. It depended on how long the horizon took to reach, and what they’d find on the other side.

  At dawn’s first gray light, they left.

  Since the desert ranch was a planet in a universe of empty space, they could go any direction at all. Robin thought they should head east, toward the early-morning sun. Eider pointed out that before long, it’d pass right over them, and then they’d be walking away from it.

  So they headed west.

  They’d only walked a few minutes when Robin stopped. “My boot’s busted.”

  “You’re kidding.” Eider knelt down and checked. Sure enough, the sole was coming away from the rest of the boot. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  Robin was only six. But because she was so smart, Eider often forgot she was the younger sister. That she still needed to be taken care of sometimes.

  Eider didn’t have any way to fix Robin’s boot. To the east, she could still see the desert ranch. The low point in the fence, which they’d stepped right over. The spike, poking into the hazy morning sky. They could run back home and try to fix it quickly. Or they could set out a different day.

  But they’d already come this far—even if it wasn’t very far at all. The hardest part was the first step, and Eider didn’t want to retrace it. Especially since, at some point soon, Teacher would realize they were missing.

  Eider sighed, reached into her bag, and pulled out her ballet slippers. Bringing them had been silly, but she hadn’t been able to bear leaving them.

  Robin’s whole face lit up. “Really? You’re gonna let me wear them?”

  “It’s our best option,” Eider said. “They’ll be too big, but they’re better than nothing. We won’t get very far with you barefoot.”

  She tied them onto Robin’s feet the best she could.

  “Can you walk?” she asked.

  Robin took a few steps, stumbled, righted herself, and took a few more. Then she held out her arms and twirled. “Now I’m a proper ballerina.”

  “You’re a silly bird, is what you are.” Eider mussed up her hair. “Let’s go.”

  Holding hands, they began to walk again. Sisters marching side by side, headed Beyond. Where maybe they would even find a family.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, Eider knew it couldn’t be that easy. She was nine years old, after all. Not six. But hope can be very convincing.

  Even in the middle of the desert.

  It grew hotter, as deserts do. To keep their minds off the heat, the girls talked about different types of families they’d read about in books. “A dad and a mom, or two moms, or only a single grandfather,” Eider said. “No sisters, or ten sisters, or three identical brothers. A cat or a dog—”

  “No dog,” Robin said.

  “Not all dogs are mean dogs.”

  “No dog!”

  Eider chuckled. Robin hated the Handyman’s dog. “Fine, no dog. How about a fox? A little kit fox—they’re not scary at all.”

  Robin giggled. “I like foxes.”

  “We’ll live in a real house,” Eider said. “With a front door and a yard in the back. Maybe a house in a forest. Or on a mountain.”

  “Or by the sea.”

  “A house by the sea! We can sit on the porch with our family and watch mermaids combing their hair in the huge, crashing waves.”

  Robin sighed dreamily. “Sounds perfect.”

  Eider sighed too. It made her realize how dry her mouth was. They’d packed two bottles of water each, which had seemed like a lot back at the ranch. Not anymore. Especially as the sun arced higher and higher in the sky.

  They walked more. And spoke less.

  At the hottest part of the day, the girls found an outcrop of rock and rested in its shade. Robin finished her first bottle of water, her cheeks bright pink. Eider hoped she wasn’t sunburned. “If Teacher was here, she’d tell us to get out of the sun.”

  “I don’t like Teacher,” Robin said.

  “Robin!” Eider exclaimed.

  “Do you?”

  “Sure. I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

  Teacher was their guardian. She’d always been there, like the desert ranch. She was all they knew. And all they had.

  Somewhere not too far off, a dog barked. Or maybe it was a coyote. “You’d never discipline me,” Robin said. “No matter how bad I got.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. Even if I knew what discipline was,” Eider joked.

  Robin didn’t smile.

  The breeze picked up, and sand tickled their legs. Eider wanted to change the subject. “Do you think it’s cool enough to keep walking? The shadows are longer now.”

  Which meant night was coming, she realized. They didn’t have long before the dark. Eider hadn’t really considered being out here at night. Or where they’d spend it. It was inevitable, though. No matter how quickly they walked, how fast they raced, the night would catch up.

  And Teacher would too.

  The truth was, Eider hadn’t considered much at all. Running away had always seemed like a fantasy, even after they’d set out. Now, here they were, in the harsh reality of the desert Beyond. With night coming. And not much water left. And the horizon seemed just as far away as it had that morning.

  The dog barked again. Eider hoped no wild animals would surprise them in the dark. She stood, then helped Robin to her feet. As she did, she caught sight of the ballet slippers—the silliest things to journey across the desert in. What if a scorpion stung her? Or a rattlesnake bit her? So many bad things could happen.

  But a rattlesnake bite was just the beginning.

  They’d walked another hour. Eider thought the landscape was starting to change. It seemed flatter the way they were headed. Less dry brush poking up, and more cricket song. A shimmer in the evening air.

  Wait—a shimmer? Eider’s heart rattled so loud, she thought she could hear it. “Hey,” she began. “Do you think—”

  And then, pain.

  The first pain, anyway: needles. Twin quick, sharp stabs. But that first pain was nothing compared to the second pain. It rocketed from her ankle upward, though her leg, punching her stomach, choking her heart.

  Robin’s scream kept going. “It bit you! It bit you!”

  Eider couldn’t speak. She could only whimper as her pain grew worse and worse. Third pain, fourth, fifth.

  “What do we do?” Robin cried. “What do we do?”

  In the blur of her agony, Eider heard the dog bark again.

  Woofwoofwoofwoofwoof

  She recognized that bark—it was the Handyman’s dog. “They’re coming. They found us.”

  “Can they help you?”

  Eider nodded. Nurse had snakebite medicine, and other kinds, too. But she didn’t feel any relief at that thought. It was hard to feel anything through the pain.

  “But they’ll take us back,” Robin said. “Will we be in trouble?”

  Eider hadn’t let herself truly consider it: getting caught. It would have ruined the fantasy. But now she had to face it. They’d be in trouble—so much trouble. They’d both be disciplined. And it was all Eider’s fault.

  “I don’t want to go back,” Robin said.

  Eider squinted at her through pain-blurred eyes. “Robin…”

  “I won’t.”

  “You can’t stay out here alone.”

  “I’ll find a family. Like you said.”

  “But—”

  “I can do it, Eider. If there’s something out there.”

  Eider’s head felt so woozy, her eyes glazed with fog. Robin swam in and out, her stubborn feet planted, her blackbird hair in her face.

  “Is there?” she asked.

  “There…there has to be.” Eider didn’t know if it was a lie or not.

  “Then I’ll find it.”


  “Take my bag,” she whispered. “Keep walking west. Straight west—toward where the sun goes down. Away from the night.”

  “West,” Robin repeated.

  “And—don’t say anything. To anyone. Not a word, until I come find you. I promise I’ll find you. Wherever you are.”

  Robin’s eyes spilled over. “You’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll be okay.” Maybe the truth, maybe a lie. “As long as you are.”

  The sisters embraced, Robin’s wet, warm cheek pressed against Eider’s. And then a sudden chill as Robin pulled away. She darted toward a pleat in the desert sameness, like she’d been eyeing it the whole time.

  A blackbird hop and she was gone.

  As Eider heard the van crunch closer, she closed her eyes. Her head panged. Her leg felt like it didn’t belong to her, a hot white agony of pain. It made her thoughts spiral and spin, entirely nonsensical. Like the notion that she’d just let her six-year-old sister run away into the desert night wearing nothing but overalls and ballet slippers.

  Alone.

  But that was crazy. It couldn’t be true. Eider’s last thought before she passed out: that she’d made a mistake.

  The biggest mistake of her life.

  Eider remembered dreaming.

  Most of her dreams had sharp, jagged edges. A beach house crashing into the sea. A purple coyote with sharp teeth. A man with a trout for a head. A copper braid that wrapped around her ankles, sending her tumbling.

  She remembered pain that spiked and burned. Pain in her ankle. Pain in her head. Pain in her heart.

  She remembered Nurse spoon-feeding her soup, but she didn’t taste any stars.

  Mostly, she remembered sleeping. Sleeping and sleeping and sleeping. When the fever broke at long last, Teacher and Nurse were both beside her bed. They weren’t looking her way, but when she croaked, they turned.

  “Welcome to the land of the living!” Nurse said.

  “We were very worried about you,” Teacher said. “How are you feeling?”

  Eider’s ankle, head, and heart throbbed all at once. “What about Robin?” she asked in reply. She cared about nothing else.

  “Robin?” Teacher repeated. A question.

  “Did you find her?”