by Morgan Rice
*
I am awakened by the echo of boots marching down the corridor. At first I think it’s just a nightmare—but then I realize it’s not. I don’t know how many hours have passed. My body feels rested, though, and that tells me I must have been asleep for a long time.
The boots grow louder and soon stop before the door. There is a dangling of keys, and I sit up straighter, my heart pounding out of my chest. They have come for me.
I don’t know how to say goodbye to Ben, and I don’t know if he even wants me to. So instead, I just stand, every muscle in my body aching, and prepare to leave.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my wrist. It is surprisingly strong, and the intensity of his grip ripples through me.
I’m afraid to look down at him, to look into those eyes—but I have no choice. He’s staring right at me. His eyes radiate concern, and in that moment, I can see how much cares for me. The intensity of it scares me.
“You did good,” he says, “getting us this far. We never should have lived this long.”
I stare back, not knowing how to respond. I want to tell him that I’m sorry for all this. I also want to tell him that I care for him. That I hope he survives. That I survive. That I see him again. That we find our siblings. That we make it home.
But I feel that he knows all this already. And so I end up not saying a word.
The door swings open, and in march the slaverunners. I turn to go, but Ben yanks on my wrist, forcing me to turn back to him.
“Survive,” he says, with the intensity of a dying man.
I stare back.
“Survive. For me. For your sister. For my brother. Survive.”
The words ring in the air, like a mandate, and I can’t help but feel as if they come from Dad, channeled through Ben. It sends a shiver up my spine. Before, I was determined to survive. Now, I feel as if I have no choice.
The slaverunners march over and stand behind me.
Ben lets go and I turn and stand proudly, facing them. I feel a surge of strength from the meal and the sleep, and I stare back at them defiantly.
One of them holds out a key. At first, I don’t understand why—but then I remember: my handcuffs. They have been on so long, I’ve forgotten they were there.
I reach out, and he unlocks them. There is a huge relief of tension, as the metal unclasps and is taken away. I rub my wrists where the circular marks are.
I march out the room before they can shove me, wanting the advantage. I know that Ben is watching me, but I can’t bear to turn around and look at him. I have to be strong.
I have to survive.
S I X T E E N
