“You’re dehydrated,” he announces, sounding grim.
My laughter ends on a sigh. “No. I’m dying.”
He holds up a bottle to my lips. “Here. Drink.”
I slap it away. “What for? Go ahead. Do your worst,” I challenge, past caring, ready for the pain to end. The uncertainty. “Kill a killer. I have. I did exactly what they wanted me to do.”
The truth is always there. Even when his ghost leaves me alone, I know it. And then I’m crying. Weeping uncontrollably as I think of the man I killed. Those eyes that won’t stop haunting me.
“Shh. You’re not with them anymore,” he murmurs, his hand back, the palm pressing cool and solid against my forehead. “Juilliard, huh? That’s impressive.” It’s like he deliberately ignores all the other stuff I confessed about myself. “I bet you wanted to be an actress.”
I don’t bother correcting him. This gentleness from him is unexpected. I turn my head in the other direction, pulling away from him, hiding my weakness. It’s embarrassing—that I can still cry and that I even care what a stranger thinks of me. His hand falls from my face.
He says nothing. The cave is silent, and I begin to wonder if he hasn’t left me after all. If I’m alone again. Darkness thickens around me as a deep lethargy pulls at me.
His voice, when I hear it again, is a faint, faraway whisper. “I’m not going to hurt you. And you’re not going to die.” There’s a long pause before he adds in a voice so distant I’m not sure if it’s him or a figment of my imagination—of the part of me that wants to believe I’m still that fourteen-year-old surrounded by people who give a damn whether she’s okay:
I won’t let you die.
* * *
Conversation between Dr. Wainwright and the United States chief of staff:
WAINWRIGHT: The suggestion that carriers are organizing to any degree, that they pose a serious threat, is preposterous. They don’t possess the discipline or levelheadedness needed—
SWITZER: I’m starting to think the same could be said of you and your staff, Wainwright. . . .
SEVEN
I’M MOVING.
The world jars around me like I’m on top of some lumbering beast. I have a flashback to my second-grade trip to the San Antonio zoo, when we still had class trips, before that part of the city became too dangerous to visit, and I got to ride on top of an elephant. It was just me and my best friend, Tori, laughing and screaming as the giant animal walked us in circles, its enormous ears flapping at flies inches from my tennis shoes. I actually feel my lips lift in a smile at the memory. That had been fun. This? Not so much. Not when my body feels like that elephant has stomped all over it. And my shoulder. Oh God. My shoulder feels like blue-hot flames consume it.
My cheek rests against something firm and warm. My eyes open, and it’s only slightly less dark than the backs of my eyelids.
The deep fold of night wraps around me. An owl hoots nearby. I hold still, trying to gauge precisely where I am. The beat of someone’s heart thuds against my cheek, and I conclude that I’m being carried. Hands clasp me, one at my arm and the other at my thigh. I try to lift my head but end up moaning, the effort too much.
A voice sounds close to my ear. “Rest. We’re almost there.”
Where is there?
I think the question but can’t get the words out. My throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. I whimper. Shapes darker than the night are etched against the horizon. Shrubs and trees. The jagged outline of mountains.
He’s moving quickly. No small feat in the near dark. The moon is just a sliver, softening the air the barest amount. His steps sketch over the ground rapidly, moving over the uneven rises and dips in the landscape like he knows exactly where to place his feet, like he has the terrain memorized . . . or is a part of it.
Another owl hoots nearby and he stops, holding himself rigidly as he listens. A few moments later the owl hoots again, and he resumes his swift pace.
I can do nothing but exist. Float through the night. Deadweight in his arms.
My eyelids sink back shut.
A voice emerges, softly at first, then louder, clearer, easing through the fog of my mind. Low and velvet smooth, like a wash of something warm going down. Spiced cider or hot chocolate, rolling through me, sinking into my pores, bleeding into my veins.
“You’re the reason I’m travelin’ on. Don’t think twice, it’s all right. . . .”
Recognition flares inside me. I know these lyrics. I’ve heard them before. My eyes fight their way open, but only darkness greets me. Gray shadows on top of black night.
And that voice. It’s there. Everywhere. Swirling, crooning somewhere just above my head. The words rumble up from the chest my cheek rests against.
The source becomes clear even in my pain-addled state. It’s him. He’s singing. He’s singing to me. His voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard, and I wonder if this is it. Have I died and gone on to wherever it is I’m supposed to go? I wouldn’t have thought heaven waited for me, not after everything, but there’s nothing in this voice that smacks of brimstone and ash. It’s the complete opposite.
“Wha—” Speech cracks in my throat, and I try again. “What are you . . . d-doing?”
He pauses long enough to shush me. Then he starts up again, singing low and deep. My eyes flutter back shut. I fall into the music like a child dropping into the arms of a protector.
My voice was strong and pure. Before I was a carrier, I was gifted in that way. And he is gifted, too. His voice shines like a ray of light in the darkness and brings me back to myself for a brief moment. Reminds me that I’m alive. That I want to be alive. That life is something I should fight for. I can’t ever let myself stop fighting. His voice, in this moment, gives me all of that.