A worn path led into the trees, but Cade avoided that. Paths meant people.
The overgrown brush snatched at his clothes. Cold crept beneath them, and Cade shivered in spite of his exertion. His real clothes would have kept him warm. These let every element in and kept nothing out.
Still moving, Cade tried to adjust to the half light. He would have done better by the moon alone. The lamps stretching above the park only confused the geometry. Holes were deeper than they looked. Trees closer together.
Cutting his own path, he cried out. A jagged, bone-deep pain pierced his heel. That new pain added to the old, raising a cold sweat on his skin. Teeth chattering, Cade grabbed a low branch. He clutched it harder than he had to. Dew shook from the budding leaves, showering him with icy flecks.
Winching himself to the ground, he propped himself against the tree’s trunk.
He pulled his foot up and shuddered. A thick triangle of glass jutted from his flesh. Hazy with filth, the glass was thick and curved. Blood seeped around its edges. Though the pulsing ache urged him to pull it out, he didn’t.
If he pulled the glass out now, his blood would flow. He had nothing to stop it with. Lifting his head, he drew a deep breath. No water in the air. Nothing to clean the wound, either. A dirty, open wound meant infection, and he couldn’t even prevent that. The paramedics had taken his pack, the one with honey and yarrow, and other medicinal herbs in it.
As much as it hurt, the glass had to stay.
Considering the threadbare T-shirt, he tore the hem from it. The fabric was so soft, it practically melted. Cade tore off more than he intended, a wide triangle of cotton.
“Josh is not getting his shirt back,” Cade muttered.
He panted a thin laugh at that thought, a grim anesthetic. It cleared his head so he could do this properly. Gritting his teeth, Cade tied the shard in place. An overwhelming agony raced through him. With measured breaths, Cade leaned his head back against the tree. As soon as this wave passed, he’d keep going.
Maybe after the second wave, he decided. His teeth chattered painfully, and he wrapped his arms around himself. As the cold and the pain melted together, he decided again: after the third wave, for sure.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
SEVENTEEN
When the phone rang, Dara looked at her bedside clock. It was two in the morning.
She tensed. Nobody called with good news at that time of night. And it was weird to get a call on the house phone. Everybody had their own cells. Grandma Porter was the only one who used the regular line anymore.
Weird as it was, something told Dara she should answer. Jogging downstairs, she caught it on the third ring. Sofia’s voice spilled out before Dara could say hello.
“Okay, the police are on their way, so tell me what to say!”
“What?” Dara yelped.
“Your primeval boyfriend escaped. He destroyed our gutters; they’re laying in the middle of the yard. My mom’s going to murder me.”
Tucking herself into an alcove, Dara kept watch for her parents. “Calm down, okay?”
“Calm is dead,” Sofia proclaimed. “And I will be, too. I’m not even lying. He ripped them right off the house. And he trashed the screen in Javier’s window.”
“You’re sure he’s gone?”
Dara didn’t have to see Sofia. The sound Sofia made, a mixture of disgust and frustration, was plenty vivid. It always came with the gonna-have-to-stab-a-bitch face, complete with deadly side-eye.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” Sofia said sarcastically. “Mrs. Goldstein next door called the police. She’s waiting for me on the porch.”
“Oh crap.”
“Yeah right, oh crap. I hear the sirens, Dare. I snuck back in to call you.”
Someone was definitely moving upstairs. Leaning over the rail, Dara watched to see if the bathroom light turned on. Maybe it was just Lia. Please be Lia, Dara prayed. Lowering her voice a little more, Dara huddled over the phone. “Any idea where he went?”
“Oh, well let me consult the parchment note he left, oh my god, he has the best handwriting, NO!” Sofia’s patience failed. “I’d appreciate a tiny bit of concern for me, Dare. The cops. Are on. Their way.”
This was a disaster. All Dara’s regrets about leaving Cade alone returned. They were an unholy choir, screeching in her head. In a horror movie, it would have meant that she was about to be stabbed by a stranger in the dark.
Since it was real life, she was perfectly safe and freaking out. Cade was out there, alone and not right in the head. Sofia was losing it at home—both Dara’s fault. Panic helps no one, Dara told herself.
“Okay. Okay. Okay, tell them you didn’t see anything. You didn’t. It’s not a lie.”
“But Mrs. Goldstein . . .”
“Didn’t see anything, either.” Dara peeked into the kitchen. Her car keys hung where they always did, on the rooster hook by the back door. She was grounded from driving, but this was an emergency. “I’m going to drive around and see if I can find him. Then I’ll be over to help you with the gutters.”
Sofia sighed. “I am so screwed.”
“You’re not,” Dara said. “I promise. I’ll fix this.”
She just didn’t know how.
Cade missed his bed.
A wooden frame kept it off the ground. Tanned deerskin smoothed the platform. The shell of the bedroll was more deerskin, sewn together to make a deep pocket. Rabbit fur lined the inside of it.
Sometimes, it got so warm, Cade had to slide out to cool off. In the summer, he slept on top of it, covered only by a reed blanket.
All he had now was the rough bark of a willow tree against his back. Arms pulled inside his shirt, Cade dug his icy fingers into his own armpits. Forming an uneven bundle, he breathed into his own collar. Every bit of warmth counted. Though he didn’t want to admit it, he was in trouble.
Back home, he would have been fine. He lived deep enough in the forest that he rarely encountered garbage. In the mining town, he’d found a few broken bottles, a shard or two from an old lantern.
But sitting in this grove, all he saw was garbage. Fading cans glinted in the low light. Plastic bags hung in the trees. Some were so worn, they’d turned into threads. They dangled and swayed, dirty white vines that would never bear fruit. It looked nothing like his home.
His home, so far away. His bed. His clothes, his things. He wanted them all so badly. He just had to check on Dara one last time. He should have been long gone . . . but it hurt to think about the alternative. If he hadn’t gone to see her again, she’d be dead.
Hot tears rose up, but he blinked them back. They’d turn icy, too, if he let them fall. Trying to stave off the cold, he sent his thoughts back home. Back in time, when everything was exactly right.
Every few weeks, his mother sat him on the cave floor to work on his hair. She cut out the knots with a knife, and smoothed clarified deer fat into the dreads. It took all afternoon, and Cade had learned this was a good time to ask questions.
“What was the world like?” he asked her once.
Pinning his shoulders between her knees, his mother twisted his curls into plaits, plaits into bundles. Sometimes she wove in fragrant herbs or flowered vines.
“He looks like a bird’s nest,” his father said. He had his own chores by the fire, rubbing bones into fish hooks and cloak clasps, and all sorts of useful things.
His mother laughed. “He’s my pretty bird. Aren’t you? Pretty bird!”
At that command, Cade peeped, and both his parents laughed. It was a good, warm sound. It radiated around him, the same as the heat from their fire. Safe with them, content, Cade leaned back and asked again, “But what was it like?”
His parents exchanged a look. There were stories in it, secrets. But Cade couldn’t translate them. He had to believe his mother when she answered, after a long quiet, �
�It was beautiful and terrible.”
“Tell me the beautiful parts.”
“Well,” she said. “People built pyramids, once. Smooth, gleaming ones in Egypt. And some with rugged steps, in Mexico and Guatemala. They’re so handsome to look at, but do you know what made them beautiful?”
Lulled by her voice, Cade had to be nudged to answer. “No,” he said dreamily. “What?”
“The Maya and the Egyptians never met each other.” She picked up her knife, and gently shaved a knot from his neck. “There was a whole ocean between them. But they both built pyramids, reaching for the heavens. Trying to get closer to their gods.”
Cade knitted his brow then. He knitted it now, remembering. “I don’t get it.”
“What made the world beautiful,” his mother said, “were the people in it.”
Oh. The emptiness of the forest sprawled around them, and Cade looked into it. Except for the occasional ranger, they were the only people in the forest. Some of the few left in the world. Though Cade understood this was tragic, he didn’t really understand it. He’d always been content with his mom and dad. They were enough, just the three of them.
“Dara,” Cade murmured. A twinge of pain brought him back to the present, and he licked his dry lips. “Sofia. Idiot Josh. Three in the helicopter. People at the hospital. The man in the car . . .”
He tried to count all the new people he’d seen. They blurred together. Everything blurred, mixed with cold and hurt—his stomach rumbled—and hunger, too. He should have taken the slice of pizza Sofia had offered him. Even though it was greasy and unfamiliar, it had been warm. He wanted something hot right now. Boiling broth, stew, soup. Roast meat and wild potatoes, something. Anything.
Wracked with cold, he shook so hard that dead leaves fluttered from the tree above him. They kissed his face as they fell, so gentle. He could almost imagine his mother was still alive. Once the sun rose, he’d be able to find his way. He only had to make it to morning. A few more hours, he just needed to hold on. So he clung to his best memories. They lulled him away from this foreign, frigid place.
Home, he reminded himself. Think about home.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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EIGHTEEN
Makwa was a quiet town most of the time. There were other parts of the county that kept Sheriff Porter busy, but his own stomping grounds barely did.
He had a lot of calls around homecoming, prom, and graduation, when the kids at the high school spent the night TPing the teachers’ houses. Every so often, he had to break up a bar fight at the Ski-Kay Lounge.
Mostly, Makwa was traffic tickets and noise complaints. So eight calls in one hour about an intruder was bizarre. So bizarre that the dispatcher called Sheriff Porter personally on his cell. Whatever happened overnight, usually, the deputies on duty would handle it.
“I just thought it could be connected to that kid,” the dispatcher said. “You know, the one . . .”
“Thanks, Arlene,” Sheriff Porter said.
She didn’t have to elaborate. He knew which kid. The one that had walked out of the hospital and disappeared in the middle of the day. The one that his daughter claimed had saved her life. It sounded like a fairy tale. This kid literally flies in on a vine to beat the crap out of a bear? With his bare hands.
Yeah, right. Sheriff Porter had to admit he wouldn’t have believed it coming from anyone but Dara. It was just too far-fetched. Sounded too much like covering something up. Especially with him up and leaving. Without clothes. Without money. Where was he going?
Of course, nobody knew. Nobody had gotten jack out of him. Just a first name, Cade. Nothing else. Not a last name, no social security number, no address.
Dutifully, Sheriff Porter fed the names into a bunch of different databases. Nothing came back, but he didn’t expect it to. There were thousands of Cades in the United States, but none of them sixteen, six five, and living in Kentucky.
He was a mystery. And just to be an absolute thorn in Sheriff Porter’s side, he was a mystery that all of a sudden the newspaper wanted to write about. Jim Albee turned up at the station after the kid went MIA from the hospital. Sheriff Porter shooed him off because there was nothing to tell—and that was the truth. But the newspaper getting interested meant complications.
Buckling his belt, Sheriff Porter then tucked his hat beneath his arm. All his girls were sleeping, and he hated to leave in the middle of the night. But the job was the job, so he kissed his sleeping wife and headed out.
Since he was still half-asleep, Sheriff Porter didn’t realize where the first call was taking him until he got there. Slowing to a stop in front of Sofia Cruz’s house, Sheriff Porter steadied himself. The dispatcher said nobody had been hurt, but it didn’t matter. Getting calls to familiar addresses scared him every time.
A few squad cars sat in front, their lights attracting gawkers like moths. It seemed like every house on the street was lit up. Sheriff Porter was used to being watched at work, so he ignored the silhouettes in the windows. Up the front steps, he knocked on the door before letting himself in.
Sofia and an older woman Sheriff Porter didn’t recognize sat on the couch. They were flanked by two of his deputies. He couldn’t get over how young Sofia looked, and at the same time, how grown-up.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
Blanching, Sofia stared down at her feet. “I think somebody tried to . . .”
It was curious, the way she trailed off. Her eyes cut away, and Sheriff Porter took a step closer. This once, being the guy in the kitchen, making post-sleepover pancakes, had an advantage. He watched his daughter’s best friend shift uneasily. Gentle, he said, “Tried to what, Sof? Are you all right? Your mom and dad still out of town?”
“No,” Sofia said, too fast. “I mean, yes. But you don’t have to bother them, I’m fine.”
Raised eyebrows were Sheriff Porter’s reply.
Abruptly, Sofia stood. “Can I talk to you in the kitchen?”
Sheriff Porter waved the deputies off, stepping past them smoothly. He didn’t like where this was going, not a little. But he liked that he was going to get there quick. Sofia opened the fridge door, then pulled out a Coke. Cracking the cold, red can, she took a sip, then remembered herself. “You want one?”
“Not right now, thanks.” Keeping his distance, Sheriff Porter nudged her. “What’s going on, Sofia?”
She took another sip of her soda, then turned around and dumped it down the sink. Completely out of sorts, she fidgeted like Sunday school had gone on just a little too long. Finally, she slumped against the counter. Whatever war she’d been fighting had ended. She met his eyes miserably.
“Nobody broke in,” she said. “Cade was here, and he broke out.”
Sheriff Porter blinked. “Excuse me?”
Looking like she wanted to melt through the floor, Sofia shrank into herself. Shoulders rounded, head bowed, it was obvious she didn’t want to say anything else—and just as obvious that she knew she needed to.
“Please don’t be mad,” she finally said. “Dara said she needed to see him. To make sure he was okay, you know? But when she saw the restraints, she flipped out. It’s not really kidnapping, is it?”
Since Sofia thought he knew what she was talking about, she left gaps in the story. Sheriff Porter had to piece it all together, and he wasn’t happy about where it was all going. Dara being late, Cade disappearing . . . Looked like he didn’t walk out of the hospital alone after all.
Hours of unwatched surveillance footage lurked on his computer at the office. With the rest of Makwa going crazy, he hadn’t had time to look at it. And now, he did. Sheriff Porter wasn’t sure what came after grounding, but whatever it was, Dara was about to find out.
But he couldn’t let Sofia see that anger. Choosing his next question carefully, he tempered his voice, gentle. “Honey, did he hurt you?”
“No. God no.” Sofia shook her head adamantly. “He barely even talked to me. The last time I saw him, he was asleep. Maybe he was plotting his big escape, I don’t know. Like it would have killed him to use the front door.”
“He didn’t?”
“No! He went out the window and climbed down the gutter. Which, by the way, is trashed. I’m so screwed.”
“I can’t disagree with you.”
Sofia sighed. “I’m sorry they woke you up for this. Now Dara’s out there looking for him and it’s all my fault.”
That was news to him, too. The house had been quiet; it was the middle of the night. It was reasonable to think all of his girls were asleep. Grinding his teeth, the sheriff shook his head. “I think Dara’s old enough to make her own bad decisions.”
“I’m really sorry,” Sofia repeated. Whether it was for harboring a fugitive or for getting her best friend in trouble, it was hard to tell.
Sheriff Porter patted Sofia on the shoulder, reassuring her. “I’m glad you’re all right. I’ll send the boys home, you lock up, all right?”
“Thanks,” she murmured.
Leaving his deputies to finish up, Sheriff Porter strode back to his cruiser purposefully. Makwa wasn’t a big town. It wasn’t hard to map, he just had to string the emergency calls together in order.
The first call came in near Sofia’s. Then a few doors down, a block away, through the alleys—it made sense on foot. The last call placed him at the park, so that was the path to follow. Turning off his siren, Sheriff Porter pulled onto the street.
If he was lucky, he’d catch Dara and the kid.
Driving aimlessly, Dara watched for signs of Cade. She felt stupid. What did she expect to see? Was she hoping he’d just jump out of the bushes and ask to hitch a ride?
She had to admit, if only to herself, that she had no idea what to expect. She’d been running on adrenaline and insanity since she’d stepped into his hospital room. For an honor roll student, she’d veered wildly off the sensible, intelligent course. And she wasn’t sure when, exactly.
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