Before we parted ways, Caden assured me he was the best. “Mauricio is smart. Do as he says.”
I nodded, holding silent. That was enough recommendation for me. Caden would never leave me in the hands of someone unqualified to get me safely to refuge number four. Caden would never leave me. . . .
I squashed the thought. I forced this on him. Well. Short of putting a gun to his head. I made him turn and walk away from me.
He adjusted my straps on my shoulders. “That comfortable?”
He still cared, still worried about me even though I was leaving him.
I nodded my answer . . . my thanks. Even if I wanted to talk, the golf ball–size lump in my throat made that impossible.
His hands stilled, gripping my straps. His gaze flickered over my face like he was memorizing it. “Be careful, Davy. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I watched him go, trying to remember what that even was.
Oddly, I feel comforted by my guide’s presence—this quiet old man who seems a part of the land. Small talk isn’t necessary. He got me across the river with none of the drama of my first crossing, and I’m confident he’ll get me the rest of the way, where I need to be. Where I need to be. I worry such a place doesn’t exist for me.
At night, he directs me to smooth the ground of rocks before unrolling my sleeping bag. As I stare up at the stars flung across the immense sky, I’m convinced I’ll never be able to sleep out here in the open with a stranger only a few feet away from me. I keep seeing Caden’s back walking away from me, his long strides taking him farther and farther away, his figure growing smaller on the horizon until Mauricio made me start walking.
But then suddenly it’s morning again. We pack up and get moving, drinking from our water bottles and eating power bars as we head out, walking hard through the day.
It’s dusk when we arrive there. Refuge number four emerges almost magically out of the land. We crest a ravine and it lies below like some village of old except with modern conveniences. Vehicles are scattered through the assortment of buildings. Mostly small houses, a few trailers, but there’s a large metal-sided building. The closer we inch, the more I can see of the hangar and the nose of an airplane inside it.
When I’m finally standing in the middle of the bustling camp, a dog trots up to me and sniffs at my legs, tail wagging in greeting. I pat its head, feeling like the new kid on the first day of school. Anxious and uneasy—like I might be sick any moment and puke all over my shoes. In this case, not expensive leather but my well-abused hiking boots.
Mauricio motions me forward now. Like a parent shooing their child into the classroom. I made it here. I just need to walk. Step forward, left foot, right foot, and find my friends, and everything I set out to do will be done. I get some curious looks as I pass through the refuge, but no one seems overly concerned at my presence. A small group of women sit beneath a tree, shelling beans into bowls. I feel their eyes on me. One waves, and a quick glance over my shoulder reveals Mauricio waving back. Of course they would recognize him. He probably brought a lot of them here, too.
I spot Sabine first. Her chestnut hair shines with gold highlights in the sun as she walks out of a flimsy-looking building balanced on cinder blocks. She’s wearing a blue sundress. It’s casual and a bit faded, the hem frayed at her tan calves. The sight of her gives me a start. I’ve never seen her in a dress before. It shows off her shoulders. She has lovely shoulders, slim and smooth, slightly toned. She seems more grown-up somehow. Not that girl who shadowed me at Mount Haven. Those days suddenly feel so long ago.
She’s carrying a box, propping it on her hip for support. I stand frozen. I glance down at my grimy clothing. The green cargo pants and the ill-fitting, long-sleeved button-down shirt. I’ve been wearing button-downs ever since I was shot. I’m covered in dust and grit from the journey. I touch my cheek, certain I look a mess. Stitches mar my forehead. My neck is covered in gauze that must be more brown than white. Phelps insisted I keep it on and only change it out once I got here, so the wound stays as clean as possible.
I stand motionless, my voice locked in my throat. She spots me then. Her gaze passes over me and then jerks back.
Then she moves. Drops her box and races toward me, crying my name. She grabs me and hugs me, squeezing so tightly I have to wince—I’m still pretty much one giant walking bruise.
She pulls back, both hands gripping my arms. “You made it! They said you were alive, but that was, like, over a month ago. We were beginning to doubt it!” Her smile is huge, probably the brightest I’ve ever seen from her.
“I’m here now,” I say dumbly.
Her gaze strays to my forehead and neck, and she frowns. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing that won’t heal.”
Except my heart. That won’t ever heal. That still feels like a twisting, crushed mass in my chest. Or an empty ache right dead center because it’s gone. Left behind.
“Well, come on. Sean and Gil will be so happy to see you.” She loops her arm through mine and God help me . . . but I feel the impulse to pull away.
Curious stares follow us as we pass through the camp. I look around and spot my guide. He’s sitting in the shade under that tree with the women shelling peas into bowls. Someone has given him a beer. He tilts his head back and drinks deeply. A pair of boys race past, tossing a football to each other. It’s such a normal scene.
We move between two buildings and Sabine chatters on, so unlike that solemn, watchful girl I first met. She’s comfortable here. I smell meat cooking over charcoal somewhere nearby, and my stomach rumbles.