by Morgan Rice
The epicenter of pain is my calf: it throbs, and feels like the size of a softball. The pain is so intense that I squint my eyes, clench my jaw, and pray silently that someone would just cut it off.
I look around and see I’m lying on a cement floor, on the upper story of an abandoned warehouse. The wall is lined with large factory windows, most of the glass panes shattered. Intermittent breezes of cold air rush in, along with gusts of snow, the flakes landing right in the room. Through the windows I can see the midnight sky, a full moon hanging low, amidst the clouds. It is the most beautiful moon I’ve ever seen. It fills the warehouse with ambient light.
I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I lift my chin and manage to turn it just a bit. There, kneeling by my side, is Logan. He smiles down. I can’t imagine how bad I must look, and I’m embarrassed for him to see me like this.
“You’re alive,” he says, and I can hear the relief in his voice.
I think back, trying hard to remember where I last was. I remember the Seaport…the pier…. I feel another wave of pain run up my leg, and a part of me wishes that Logan would just let me die. He holds up a needle, prepping it.
“They gave us medicine,” he says. “They want you to live. They don’t like the slaverunners any more than we do.”
I try to register what he’s saying, but my mind is not working clearly, and I shiver so much, my teeth are chattering.
“It’s Penicillin. I don’t know if it will work—or if it’s even the real thing. But we have to try.”
He doesn’t have to tell me. I can feel the pain spreading and know there is no alternative. We have to try.
He reaches down and holds my hand, and I squeeze his. He then leans over and lowers the needle right to my calf. A second later, I feel the sharp sting of the needle entering my flesh. I breathe sharply and squeeze his hand harder.
As Logan pushes the needle in deeper, I suddenly feel the burning liquid enter. The pain is beyond what I can take, and despite myself, I hear myself shriek, echoing in the warehouse.
As Logan takes it out, I feel another cold gust of wind and snow, cooling the sweat on my forehead. I try to breathe again. I want to look up at him, to thank him. But I can’t help it: my eyes, so heavy, close on themselves.
And a moment later, I am out again.
*
It is Summer. I am thirteen years old, and Bree is six, and we skip hand in hand through the lively streets of the Seaport. They are jam-packed with life, everyone out and about, and Bree and I run down the cobblestone streets, laughing at all the funny people.
Bree plays a sort of hopscotch game on the cracks, half hopping and half-skipping every few steps, and I try to follow in her path. She laughs hysterically at this, and then laughs even harder as I chase her around and around a statue.
Behind us, smiling, hand-in-hand, are my parents. It is one the few times I can remember their being happy together. It is also one of the few times I can remember my father actually being around. They trail behind us, watching over us, and I’ve never felt so safe in my life. I feel that the world is perfect, that we will always be as happy as this moment.
Bree finds a seesaw and she’s ecstatic, beelining for it and jumping on. She doesn’t hesitate, knowing that I will jump on the other side and even her out. Of course I do. She is lighter than me, and I make sure not to jump too hard, so that she can balance with me.
I blink. Time has passed, I’m not sure how much. We’re now at a waterfront park somewhere. Our parents are gone, and we are alone. It is sunset.
“Push me harder, Brooke!” Bree screams.
I look over and see that Bree is seated on a swing. I reach over and push her. She goes higher and higher, laughing hysterically.
Finally, she jumps off. She comes around and hugs me, wrapping her little hands tight around my thighs. I kneel down and give her a proper hug.
She leans back and looks at me, smiling.
“I love you, Brooke,” she says, smiling.
“I love you too,” I answer.
“Will you always be my big sister?” she asks.
“I will,” I say.
“Do you promise?” she asks.
“I promise,” I say.
*
I open my eyes, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am out of pain. It is amazing: I feel healthy again. The pain in my leg is mostly gone, and as I reach down and feel it, the swelling has shrunk to the size of a golf ball. The medicine really worked.
My aches and pains have also reduced dramatically, and I sense that my fever has, too. I don’t feel nearly as cold, and I’m not sweating as much. I feel as if I’ve been given a second chance at life.
It is still dark in here. I look up and can no longer see the moon, and wonder how much time has passed. Logan is still sitting there, by my side. He sees me and reacts immediately, reaching over and brushing my forehead with a damp cloth. I see he’s not wearing a coat, and look down and see he has draped his over me. I feel terrible; he must be freezing.
I feel a fresh wave of appreciation for him, feel closer to him than ever. He must really care for me. I wish I could tell him how much I appreciate it. But right now, my mind is still moving slow, and just doesn’t seem to form the words.
He reaches down and puts a hand behind my head and lifts it.
“Open your mouth,” he says softly.
He places three pills on my tongue, then pours bottled water into my mouth. My throat is so dry that it takes a few tries to swallow—but finally, I feel it go down. I lift my head a bit more and take another long sip.
“Fever reducers,” he says.
“I feel much better,” I say, with new energy. I reach over and grab his hand and squeeze it tight in appreciation. I know that he has saved my life. Again. I look up at him. “Thank you,” I say earnestly.
He smiles, then suddenly pulls his hand away. I’m not sure how to interpret this. Does he not care for me as much as I think? Did he only do this out of obligation? Does he care for someone else? Did I overstep my boundaries in some way? Or is he just shy? Embarrassed?
I wonder why it bothers me so much, and suddenly it dawns on me: I have feelings for him.
He reaches down and removes something from a backpack.
“They gave us this,” he says.
He pulls out a piece of dried fruit and hands it to me. I take it in awe, feeling a hunger pang already.
“What about you?” I ask.
He shakes his head, as if deferring. But I won’t eat it otherwise. I break mine in half and shove it into his hand. He grudgingly accepts it. I then devour mine, and it is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten. It tastes like cherries.
He smiles as he eats, then reaches into the pack and pulls out two pistols. He hands me one. I study it in awe.
“Fully loaded,” he says.
“They must really hate those slaverunners,” I say.
“They want us to get your sister. And they want us to inflict damage,” he says.
The gun is heavy in my hand; it feels so good to have a weapon again. Finally, I don’t feel defenseless, and I feel as if I have a fighting chance to get her back.
“Next boat leaves at dawn,” he says. “A few hours to go. You up for it?”
“I’ll be on that boat even if I’m a corpse,” I say, and he smiles.
He examines his own gun, and I am suddenly overcome with a desire to know more about him. I don’t want to pry, but he is so silent, so enigmatic. And I am feeling more and more attached to him. I want to know more.
“Where were you going to go?” I ask him. My voice is hoarse, my throat dry, and it comes out more scratchy than I would like.
He looks at me, puzzled.
“If you’d escaped, in the beginning. If you’d taken that boat?”
He looks away and sighs. A long silence follows, and after a while, I wonder if he is going to answer.
“Anywhere,” he finally says, “far away
from here.”
I think about that, and I feel that he’s holding something back. I’m not sure why. But I just feel that he’s the type to have a more concrete plan.
“There must be somewhere,” I say. “Some place you had in mind.”
He looks away. Then, after a long silence, reluctantly, he says, “Yes, there was.”
It is clear from his tone that he doesn’t expect to be able to reach it now. After a long pause, I realize he’s not going to volunteer it. I don’t want to pry, but I have to know.
“Where?” I ask.
He looks away, and I can see he doesn’t want to tell me for some reason. I wonder if maybe he still doesn’t trust me. Then, finally, he speaks.
“There’s supposed to be one town left. A safe place, untouched, where everything is perfect. Unlimited food and water. People live there as if there was never a war. Everyone’s healthy. And it’s safe from the world.”
He looks at me.
“That’s where I was going.”
For a moment I wonder if he’s pulling my leg. He must realize that it sounds incredulous—infantile, even. I can’t believe that someone as mature and responsible as him would believe in such a place—or would make a plan to find it, no less.
“Sounds like a place of fairytales,” I say, smiling, half-expecting him to tell me he was just kidding.
But to my surprise, he suddenly scowls down at me.
“I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says, sounding hurt.
I am shocked by his reaction. He really does believe it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought you were joking.”
He looks away, embarrassed. It’s hard for me to even comprehend it: I gave up thinking of anything good still existing in the world long ago. I can’t believe he still clings to this belief. Him, of all people.
“Where is it?” I finally ask. “This town?”
He pauses for a long time, as if debating whether to tell me.
Finally, he says: “It’s in Canada.”
I am speechless.
“I was going to take the boat all the way up the Hudson. Find out for myself.”
I shake my head. “Well, I guess we all have to believe in something,” I say.
The second I say it, I regret it. It comes out too harshly. That’s always been my problem—I never seem able to say the right things. I can be too tough, too critical—just like Dad. When I get nervous, or embarrassed, or afraid to say what I really mean—especially around boys—sometimes it just comes out wrong. What I meant to say was: I think it’s great that you still believe in something. I wish I did, too.
His eyes darken, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment. I want to retract it, but it’s too late. The damage is done. I’ve screwed things up already.
I try to quickly think of something, anything, to change the subject. I’m not good at conversation. I never have been. And it might be too late to salvage it anyway.
“Did you lose anyone?” I ask. “In the war?”
I am such an idiot. What a stupid question. I’ve just gone from bad to worse.
He breathes deeply, slowly, and I feel as if now I’ve really hurt him. He bites his lower lip, and for a moment, it looks like he’s holding back tears.
After an interminable silence, he finally says: “Everyone.”
If I wake up in the morning and he’s gone, I won’t blame him. In fact, I’d be surprised if he sticks around. Clearly, I should just shut up and wait for dawn.
But there’s one more thing I need to know, one thing that’s burning inside. And I just can’t stop myself from mouthing the words:
“Why did you save me?” I ask.
He looks at me with intensity, through red eyes, then slowly looks away. He turns, and I wonder if he’s going to respond at all.
A long silence follows. I hear the wind whistling through the empty windows, the snowflakes landing on the floor. My eyes grow heavy and I’m beginning to fall back asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness. And the last thing I hear, before my eyes close for good, are his words. They are so faint and soft that I’m not even sure if he really says it, or if I just dream it:
“Because you remind me of someone.”
*
I fall in and out of sleep for the next few hours, partly dreaming and partly flashing back. During one of my episodes, I finally remember what happened on that day we left the city. As much as I’d like to forget, it all comes flooding back to me.
When I found Bree in that alley, surrounded by those boys, and threw the Molotov cocktail—there was a small explosion, and then shrieks filled the air. I managed to hit their ringleader, and the boy lit up in a ball of fire. He ran about, frantic, as the others tried to put him out.
I didn’t wait. In the chaos, I ran right past the flaming boy, and right for Bree. I grabbed her hand and we ran away from them, through the back alleys. They chased us, but we knew those back streets better than anyone. We cut through buildings, in and out of hidden doors, over dumpsters, through fences. Within a few blocks, we’d thoroughly lost them, and made it back to the safety of our apartment building.
It was the last straw. I was determined to leave the city right then and there. It was no longer safe—and if Mom wouldn’t see that, then we’d have to leave without her.
We burst into our apartment, and I ran straight to Mom’s room. She was sitting there, in her favorite chair, staring out the window, as she always did, waiting for Dad to return.
“We’re leaving,” I said, determined. “It’s too dangerous here now. Bree was almost killed. Look at her. She’s hysterical.”
Mom looked at Bree, then back to me, not saying a word.
“He’s not coming back,” I said. “Face it. He’s dead.”
Mom reached back and smacked me. I was stunned. I still remember the sting of it.
“Don’t you ever say that,” she snapped.
I narrowed my eyes, furious that she’d dare hit me. It is a hit that I will never forgive her for.
“Fine,” I seethed back to her. “You can live in your fantasy as long as you like. If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to. But we’re leaving. I’m heading to the mountains, and I’m taking Bree.”
She snorted back derisively. “That’s ridiculous. The bridges are blocked.”
“I’ll take a boat,” I answer, prepared. “I know someone who will take us. He’s got a speed boat and he’ll take us up the Hudson.”
“And how can you afford that?” she asked me coldly.
I hesitated, feeling guilty. “I traded my gold watch.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You mean Dad’s gold watch,” she snapped.
“He gave it to me,” I corrected. “And I’m sure he’d want to see me put it to good use.”
She looked away from me in disgust, staring back out the window.
“Don’t you get it?” I continued. “In a few more weeks, this city will be destroyed. It’s not safe here anymore. This is our last chance to get out.”
“And how’s your father going to feel when he comes home and finds us all gone? When he discovers that we have all abandoned him?”
I stared at Mom, incredulous. She was really lost in her fantasy.
“He left us,” I spat. “He volunteered for this stupid war. No one asked him to go. He’s not coming back. And this is exactly what he’d want us to do. He’d want us to survive. Not to sit around some stupid apartment waiting to die.”
Mom slowly turned and looked at me with her cold, steely-gray eyes. She had that awful determination, that same awful determination that I have. Sometimes I hate myself for being so much like her. I could see in her eyes, at that moment, that she would never, ever, give in. She had gotten it into her head that waiting was the loyal thing to do. And once she got something into her head, there was no changing it.
But in my view, her loyalty was misplaced. She owed her loyalty to us. To her children. Not to a man who was more devoted to fighti
ng than to us.
“If you want to leave your father, go ahead. I’m not going. When your plans fall through, and you don’t make it upriver, you can come back. I’ll be here.”
I didn’t wait a second longer. I grabbed Bree by the hand, turned and strutted with her to the door. Bree was crying, and I knew I had to get out of there quick. I stopped one last time before the door.
“You’re making a mistake,” I called out.
But she didn’t even bother to turn, to say goodbye. And I knew she never would.
I opened the door, then slammed it behind me.
And that was the last I ever saw Mom alive again.
THIRTY
I wake to blinding sunlight. It is as if the world is alive again. Sunlight streams in through the windows all around me, brighter than I’ve ever seen, bouncing off of everything. The wind has stopped. The storm is over. Snow melts off the window ledge, the sound of dripping water echoing all around me. There is a cracking noise, and a huge icicle crashes down onto the floor.
I look around, disoriented, and realize I’m still lying on the floor, in the same place I was last night, Logan’s coat draped over me. I feel completely rejuvenated.
Suddenly, I remember, and sit up with a shock. Dawn. We had to get up at dawn. The site of the bright morning light suddenly terrifies me, as I look over and see Logan lying there, right beside me, eyes closed. He is fast asleep. My heart stops. We have overslept.
I scramble to my feet, feeling energetic for the first time, and roughly shake his shoulder.
“LOGAN!” I say urgently.
Immediately, his eyes open, and he jumps to his feet. He looks around, alert.
“It’s morning!” I plead. “The boat. We’re going to miss it!”
His eyes open wide in surprise as he realizes.