Humanity

by J. D. Knutson

  The man looked between the two of us silently for a moment, mulling over my words. “I could lose my job if I let you in,” he finally murmured.

  My heart skipped a beat, but I didn’t say anything; I waited.

  “I understand what you want; I wanted that, too, once. It didn’t work out – my wife died shortly after our first child was born – but I would give anything to have another chance at it.” He rubbed at his eyes, tired. “Sometimes I feel so weak; I have a habit of letting you people into the country. I haven’t been caught yet, though.” He looked at Gideon. “My advice? Get as far from the border as you can – it’ll make it more difficult to trace your origins.” He smiled wryly. “It’ll also help me keep my job. Here,” He bent over his desk, unlocking a drawer and pulling it out. He handed some small pieces of paper to Gideon. Was that money?

  “It won’t last long, but hopefully it’ll help you get started.” He stood, then turned around and placed another key into the window, unlocking it before pulling it open; the warm night air caressed our faces, and with it came the smells of this new country. “You’ll want to get a move on before anyone realizes you’ve left.”

  “What’ll you tell them?” I asked, still shocked at the luck we’d had; if this man hadn’t been the leader on duty that night, we wouldn’t have made it.

  “I’ll tell them I already sent you back,” he said.

  “Won’t they be standing outside the door, though?”

  “Naw, they all have jobs to do; they know I can handle myself.”

  “Our guns?” Gideon asked, eyes glued to the open window.

  “Confiscated. But I doubt you’ll need them anymore. Now, get going. Please.”

  I caught his eye. “Thank you,” I said, trying to put as much feeling as possible into the statement. There was no way I could have thanked him properly, but I hoped he could understand more than my desire to safely raise a family – I hoped he could understand the gratitude in receiving the potential for the opportunity.

  Gideon nodded at the man, and then tugged my hand; he climbed through the window first, then pulled me after him, lifting me from my feet to place me on the ground.

  “Good luck,” the man told us, then closed the window, disappearing from sight – the exterior of the window was tinted, shielding the happenings of the office from view.

  I felt naked without my gun. But, as the man had said, we probably wouldn’t need them anymore. At least, I hoped not.

  I looked at Gideon; he looked back at me. Then, together, we turned away from the building to face the street. Slowly, we stepped forward, into the chaos, the freedom, the beauty, of civilization.

  Epilogue – Candace

  My stomach heaved, and its contents came back up, forcing me to hurl them into the grass.

  “What a waste,” I muttered, grasping at the skin of my belly.

  “It’s worth it,” Gideon soothed, rubbing my back and smoothing my hair away from my face.

  “Says you – you’re not the one throwing up. I’m telling you, this kid’s going to be an only child. I can’t do this again.”

  “What about the nine siblings we’ve already promised him?” he asked in mock horror.

  “Gone. Not happening.”

  He smiled benignly as he pulled me back into a standing position.

  A woman passing us on the sidewalk stopped, raising an eyebrow at me. “Enferma?” she asked Gideon.

  He shook his head. “Embarazada,” he replied.

  “Oh! Muy bien. Felicitaciones.” She kept walking.

  “Why doesn’t anyone mind their own business around here?” I muttered.

  “Comes with living in a small farm town,” Gideon lightly answered.

  “I wish you wouldn’t be so happy; it’s nauseating.”

  The smile automatically disappeared from his face. “Sorry. I’ll be truly morose from now on.”

  I pretended I hadn’t heard this, walking forward again. “Let’s just get home already.”

  We walked along a dirt road, tall stalks of corn growing on one side, with short stalks of beans growing on the other. The heat on my neck wasn’t necessarily pleasant; I missed the shade of the forests.

  Gideon missed traveling in the forest, too, but we both knew it was a small sacrifice for the ability to live in a community without fear of being hurt.

  It had been three years since we’d crossed the border into Mexico, and it had taken nearly that long for us to find somewhere to stay, right in the middle of the country. Hunger hadn’t ever been an unknown concept to us, but it did happen quite a lot for us in those first few years. For one thing, we no longer had a free hunting range. For another, we had no money.

  However, through a series of chance encounters, we made our way to Torreon. Someone we met along the way suggested a family with a lot of farmland who liked to rent out pieces of it to others; the pay was a portion of the harvest. We looked into this suggestion, and found the family to our liking.

  The land came with a small shack of a house. I had been absolutely delighted by this when I’d found out – no more sleeping in alleyways, or hiding out in fields hoping the owners wouldn’t catch us.

  Gideon wasn’t quite as impressed, and set to work renovating the place.

  The first growing season came, and we did okay for ourselves. It was a completely different type of work from hunting and running and walking, but we both found that we had the stamina for it, and it was very rewarding to see the plants grow for our work.

  Now, we were walking back from the local market; Gideon carried a basket of the things we’d traded for, and I focused on keeping my stomach steady. We reached our little house, and Gideon held the door open for me. I immediately walked in and laid down on the bed, not even bothering to take off my shoes.

  Gideon set the basket down, then climbed in behind me, wrapping around me in the way that he liked. “I love you,” he whispered into my ear.

  It was so strange, the way the two of us had gotten to this point. It had started with the death of my parents, and had been pulled along by the interactions we’d had with others. I’d learned so much since I’d met him: about survival, about what I really wanted to live for, and about how any one person was a deep ocean of feelings, rationalities, needs, and emotions. He’d taught me to see the world for the beauty that it offered, rather than something to overcome. He’d taught me about what it meant to be human: to do something out of desperation, not necessarily because it was the right thing – then, to regret it and wish that another option had presented itself.

  He’d taught me how to love someone, no matter what he might have done in the past. And, through that love, he’d taught me how to forgive.

  It was odd to think that our relationship had started because he had killed the people most dear to me. Now, he was what brought happiness to each breath I took – even as my stomach churned determinedly, nauseatingly – and I couldn’t imagine my life without him. He was everything to me. I didn’t see him for what he had done wrong; I saw that as part of his humanity.

  Back in the U.S., everyone was human, and he and I had just been doing what was necessary for each of us to get through one more day. Finally, though, what brought us through each day was the love we had for each other.

  My ability to forgive him? Maybe that defined me as human, too. I still didn’t know whether it had been the perfect choice to forgive him, but I didn’t think about that anymore. My love overwhelmed any doubts I had, and I knew my parents would want me to be happy.

  I craned around to look at him, searching his eyes for all the pieces of him that I cared most about. “I love you, too,” I said, and I leaned in to kiss him.

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  Acknowledgements

  The idea for Humanity first came to me as my husband and I were sitting on the couch, deep in a discussion about what made a story good, and what made some novels more successful than others. I had just finished writing the first draft of the second volume to my Dual Existence series, and I already knew that I was not an easily categorized writer. I’ve never been able to bring myself to write the stories that I know will sell like hotcakes. I write what captures my attention.

  My husband was in the middle of a paragraph of speech discussing this sort of thing, when a big grin broke over my face and I held up a hand to stop him. “I just had an awesome idea for a story.” When I told him, he thought I was crazy. Why would someone ever fall in love with the person that killed their parents? I assured him that I was going to find out.

  Never has a writing project captured my attention the way this one did. After I wrote the first chapter, I updated my husband on how things were progressing. He still thought I was crazy. I told him when I thought I’d be done writing – in just under six weeks. He thought that I was setting the bar a little high then, but when the days passed and I got closer to finishing, he understood what had happened. I had been sucked into my art.

  I finished only three weeks after beginning.

  Thank you, Austin, for riding along for all of it. Thank you for tucking Isaac into bed every night while I pounded the words out. And thank you for watching both boys now while I put in the last finishing touches so that Humanity can be released.

  To Isaac and Elijah: I’m sorry that you had to sacrifice a couple hours of playtime here and there! Honestly, I was probably way more fun after spending some time in the office anyway.

  Mom: You were the first to finish the book, and always my biggest fan!

  Thank you, Olivia, for giving a very honest critique, and for sharing your excitement!

  To Beccy: I feel like we have history now! It’s great to know I can count on you to bring the characters out of the words, to decipher what I want, even though I might not fully know. Thank you for bringing Candace and Gideon to life!

  As always, I am also very grateful to God, for allowing my circumstances to be such that I can have the luxury of sitting in a cushy chair and typing my heart out.

  Stock Images for Cover Art Collected From:

  http://randomactscreative.com

  http://mirish.deviantart.com

  http://malleni-stock.deviantart.com

  http://cd-stock.deviantart.com

  http://wesley-souza.deviantart.com

  About the Author

  J. D. Knutson graduated with a History degree from Brigham Young University. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and two children. She uses writing as her excuse for everything.