Even If We Break

by Marieke Nijkamp

  I’ll leave the door open between us.

  It’s not splitting the party if we stay on the same floor.

  Right?

  Nineteen

  Finn

  I’m on fire.

  The world twists and turns. It feels as though electricity is still coursing through me, like angry fireflies. I ache. Everything hurts. That’s what I’m most aware of. The pain spreads from my hand and my arm through my entire body. I don’t know how to move.

  Living with an obnoxious, stubborn body means I learned how to fall. I learned how to break my fall. I learned how to fall and protect myself. I learned how to fall and keep breathing. I learned how to fall in such a way that I didn’t break further.

  But getting back up again is never easy.

  Ever’s hand is soft. It’s an artist’s hand.

  I blink and try to pull the world into focus, to see them. My thoughts become clearer and clearer too.

  “I’m going to try to help you up, okay?” Ever keeps their voice low, while they look at a point past me. “Maddy is grabbing something to cool your hand.”

  “That’s a terrible idea,” I whisper. It takes me two tries to get the words out right. I raise my voice. “Maddy?”

  The answer comes from near the entrance to the kitchen, in another low whisper. “I’m here. I’m still here.”

  Ever winces. “C’mon.” They get me into a half-sitting position. Three hells, the sudden movement hurts. Up is down and down is up, and I think I’m going to be sick.

  I fall into them, and we both topple over. They hold me. Protect me. They help me to sit up, and there’s a gleam of moisture in their eyes when I look at them.

  “Are you okay?” they ask.

  “I don’t think so.” I push myself up and crane my neck to see where Maddy’s gone. “I’m not entirely sure what okay means right now.”

  The cold, darkened room holds no answers. My hands aren’t trembling as much anymore, but I feel like I’ve done a few rounds with a dragon. Or been in a bar fight with an ogre.

  I can deal with pain. I always have and always will. But that’s familiar pain. It’s the pain I can—to some degree—adapt to and understand. This is too much. Too overwhelming. What’s almost as bad is that I’m bone tired. Tired enough that part of me wants to curl up and stay here, screw the consequences. It feels like my bones are made of titanium and my muscles have melted under the shock.

  My burnt hand is still clawed and throbbing, and I cradle it close to me. I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve accepted that my role in this group was done, and left this weekend for what it was.

  Ever scoops up my crutches from the floor and hands them to me. “I don’t know what okay means either, but for what it’s worth—and I don’t know if it’s worth anything—I’m glad you’re here with me. I’d rather you weren’t. I’d rather you were safe. But selfishly, I’m glad.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that.

  They stand in front of me, our hands touching when I take one of the crutches. They hold my crutch—and my hand—a beat longer, so tight they could bruise me. They look me over, probably to make sure I’m okay. They’re close enough that I can feel their warm breath on my skin and the pounding of their heart through their fingertips.

  Then, after what seems like an eternity and in the softest voice possible, they ask, “Do you think you were the next on the list?”

  I open my mouth to answer when Maddy reappears at our side, juggling a wet cloth, a first aid kit, a box of matches, and a large bread knife. Her eyes are darting around the room. “I think we’re all on the list. It doesn’t matter who’s next,” she answers for me. “Give me your hand.”

  She slips the knife into the back waistband of her pants and pushes the first aid kit at Ever. Then, with trembling fingers, she starts to wind the cloth around my hand. It’s cold to the point of freezing, and I shiver. It draws the pain from my palm and actually seems to stop the burning. It cools my head a little too.

  “We should figure out bandages later, when we’re out of here,” Maddy whispers. “I’d rather not spend any more time here.”

  “We have to wait until Finn—”

  “I agree, we have to get out.” Ever’s and my words overlap. “The question is: How?” I grasp my crutch a little tighter and stare at the door. It’s still opening a smidge, and then closing again. Opening, closing. Desperate to be able to fall into the lock and secure the cabin. And it’s almost as if everything crackles with electricity.

  A real-life magic ward that we can’t ward ourselves against.

  “The windows, maybe?” Ever suggests.

  Maddy has taken the first aid kit back and is rifling through it, as if she just needs something to occupy her. “The windows are reinforced. Pretty much everything in this cabin is. Liva”—her voice catches—“was afraid of bears. Or of the ghost stories. There is an override somewhere, if I’m not mistaken, but I don’t know where.” She finds a blister pack of pills and stares at it. It takes a moment or two before she speaks again. “We got stuck here once, two years ago. Didn’t she tell you? Liva didn’t want to wait until her father came up the mountain with one of their handymen to get us out of here—or maybe she didn’t want to face him. So she called Zac, and he hacked the system to get us out.”

  I stare at Maddy, the words sending an uncomfortable tingle down my spine. Zac could hack the locking mechanism? Did he know we were here?

  Ever sets their jaw. “What if we push something between the door? Like the sword, but firmer. Something that holds it open wide enough for us to dash through without touching the door or the frame.”

  I take another step toward the door, still keeping a respectful distance. There’s a few inches between the door and the frame. “We could use my crutches,” I suggest softly. “The rubber tips should be enough insulation against the electricity from the ward. I think.”

  Drawing in a sharp breath, I take a step forward and hold a crutch against the door. Ever gasps. Maddy drops the pack of pills. Underneath my crutch, I can almost feel the electricity crackle and reach out to me, like power building and waiting to snap. But—

  Nothing.

  I feel a little faint when I turn to Ev and Maddy. “I think that would work.”

  Ever reaches out and punches my good arm. “Why did you try that? What is wrong with you?”

  I grimace. “I figured we have to get out one way or another, and I’ve never really been good with not pursuing terrible ideas.”

  That’s a lie. It’s only true in our game world. In this world, I’ve grown too careful. But it’s easier to say this than to tell them the truth: if we don’t do anything, we’re trapped. Getting shocked again would’ve been a simple price to pay.

  I incline my head toward the door. “It’s heavy, though. We’re going to need pressure on it to keep it open wide enough, and probably from both sides, once one of us has managed push through. It’s going to take some coordinating to get all three of us through, one by one.”

  Ever still holds one of the crutches and looks at it speculatively. “I can do that. I can wedge it open from here, and once one of you slips through, you can be the counterbalance on the other side.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not sure what the other options are. And this is worth a try, right?”

  “You can do this.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Maddy has walked closer too, and she’s closed the first aid kit again. With her free hand, she wipes at her cape, a repetitive motion that I’m not entirely sure she’s aware of. The same flightiness is still in her eyes, and she keeps looking back at the pills. She looks small here. She’s looked small since the accident, like she’s lost, both in herself and the world.

  I hesitate. “How are you feeling?”

  She stares at me.

 
“How’s the pain? How’s your knee?”

  I didn’t know if she expected that to be the question, but after considering it, she nods. “It hurts, but I can still stand, even if I don’t want to.”

  “Could you hold the door from the other side?” I hold up my wrapped hand. “I’m not sure if I’m strong enough with one arm. I don’t think I am.”

  Ever makes a choked sound, and Maddy’s eyes flick toward them. “I think so. It’s the best solution, right?” She licks her lips. “Do you want me to take your other crutch out? Are you okay to get out without it?”

  Unless we try to open the door far enough to push chairs between it and then find an unsteady way to climb over—which doesn’t sound like the best plan either—I don’t see another option. We only need to get out. That’s it. Three people through one door. It might be the classic RPG scenario, but it can’t be that impossible, can it?

  “I’ll hold on to it for as long as I can, but yeah. You can catch me if I fall.” I meant to say it in jest, to lighten the mood, because both Maddy and Ever look deeply worried. But I realize: I believe it. I haven’t for a long time, but I trust that both Maddy and Ever will catch me when I stumble. “We’ll do it together. It’s the only way this is going to work.”

  “Okay,” Maddy says. And then again, “Okay.”

  She and Ever share a look, and there’s a story there that I don’t know and can’t read. But they both nod.

  “Okay.”

  At that, we all take our places. Maddy and I, right next to the door. Ever, directly opposite. Once we start pushing, we can’t stop, because the Styrofoam sword will tumble out of the deadlock it’s in now. Fortunately, the door swings open onto the porch, instead of into the living room, which would’ve made this infinitely harder. Now, all we have to do is keep the pressure on. Brace ourselves against the strength of the automated locking system—and run the first chance we get.

  “Ready?” Ever asks.

  I nod. “Are you?”

  They set their jaw.

  Maddy tenses. “What happens when we’re outside, though?”

  “We’ll figure that out once we get there,” I say. “One step at a time.” I lean the crutch against her hand, so she can grab it when she sees an opportunity. Her fingers briefly touch mine as we both find the hand grip, and I make sure the crutch isn’t held back by my elbow or my coat. It won’t be easy to keep the door open from the outside, but at least from that point on, there’ll be two of us trying. It won’t just be Ever.

  “Counting down,” Ever says. “Three, two, one. Let’s go.”

  Twenty

  Ever

  One step at a time? One trap at a time, more likely. There has to be something on the other side of this door too, because it’s clear it isn’t over yet. I’m not sure it’ll ever be over. Even if we get out of here, we’ve lost parts of us.

  Still. I take the crutch and place it against the door—and steel myself. But there’s no electric shock, just the constant back-and-forth slamming of the door under my hold. I have to brace myself so I don’t lose my balance.

  I use the rubber tip of the crutch to find what seems to be the point with the most leverage—near the door handle—and push with all my might. I manage to make it three steps forward. The Styrofoam sword drops to the floor, mangled beyond recognition. But I can’t move farther. It feels like the door is resisting the pressure, like one of those electric doors that jams when you try to push it.

  “Do we need to help?” Finn asks.

  No. I suck in air through my teeth. “You need to be ready to run.”

  With that, I yell and push.

  I push because I need to get out. Maddy needs to get out. And Finn needs to get out. I wouldn’t know what to do if any more of my friends got stuck here, and I certainly wouldn’t know what to do if he did. So I push, because I hate that Finn can’t trust us anymore and I want to prove to him—to all of us—that we’re still good.

  Because he has the world at his feet, and he deserves every bit of it. He deserves to be happy, because when he is, his smile lights up the universe. When he gets excited about something, he gets excited with his whole entire being. He bounces back and forth on the balls of his feet. He uses ridiculously wild gestures. He doesn’t let anything stop him, and I want him to be happy like that again, I need him to be happy like that again, because it constantly feels like there’s a fragment of my heart that’s out of place when he isn’t.

  And I push because somewhere in the distance, Elle is waiting for me. I promised I’d be back for her two nights from now, to hear all about her weekend, all those wondrously bizarre treatises she read and the new girl on the block she wanted to hang out with. I promised to sit with her at night and tell her stories about our Gonfalon adventures until long after she falls asleep, because she sleeps easier that way.

  I push because I owe it to all of them.

  And when I do, the door groans open farther. An inch. Another inch. A foot. And a half.

  More moonlight filters through, giving all of us a clear path out.

  “What if we push a chair against it? Something?”

  I grit my teeth. “Move.”

  “Okay.” Maddy nods. She takes the crutch from Finn’s hands and readies herself. At the same time, I breathe out, breathe in, and brace.

  Maddy dives through the door, the crutch as a shield before her. Finn and I both hold our breath while she does, and she stumbles onto the porch, collapsing on hands and knees. Suddenly, I wonder if she won’t get up. Or maybe she’ll take the secrets she’s so obviously carrying and bolt.

  Some of that tension must show, because Finn takes his eyes from the door to frown at me. “A little bit longer, Ev. You’ve got this.”

  I nod, even while I can feel the door slip. “Maddy! Get up! I can’t hold the door on my own much longer.”

  The words take an awful lot of effort, but Maddy scrambles to her feet and holds out the crutch. She takes up position next to the door, out of my line of sight, but I can see the tip of the crutch settle in right above mine—and then she pushes too. The crutch slips, and she nearly tumbles forward, but a moment later it’s back in place. Trembly, wobbly, but there.

  Relief shudders through me, from being proven wrong and from having some of the pressure taken off my hands.

  Together, we can manage to keep the door steady longer, open it wider. Maddy is breathing heavily and Finn’s eyes are wide. He’s leaning hard against the wall.

  “Are you ready?” I ask, between catching my breath and bracing myself again.

  He stares at the door. Nods.

  “Finn?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I’m ready.”

  “Okay. Go.”

  He dashes. His pace is uncertain, and he has his arms up to protect his head, but he makes it through unscathed.

  Once he’s out, I lose my grip on the crutch, and I’m the one to stumble. I would’ve been pushed back, the door slammed shut, if it hadn’t been for Maddy holding it open from the outside.

  She yelps. “Ever, what happened?”

  “Nothing. My arms hate me.”

  “We need to get you out of there,” Finn says.

  “Hold the door as long as you can,” Maddy adds, “and we’ll push it from here. Just…hurry.”

  I nod, before I realize Maddy can’t possibly see that from her vantage point, and in these shadows, probably neither can Finn. “Once more unto the breach.” With that, I get ready to push myself out too.

  But then, a voice echoes from another corner of the cabin. “Ever?” It’s hard to tell whether it’s coming from upstairs or somewhere around here. “Are you there?”

  I freeze. No.

  This can’t be. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

  It’s impossible. The voice is my sister’s. It’s Elle. But she can’
t be here. She shouldn’t be here. I won’t know what to do if she is.

  “Ever, I’m scared.”

  Inch by excruciating inch, the crutch slips from my grasp at the sound of that voice. I’m frozen, and I don’t know what to do but call back, “Elle? Where are you?”

  No response.

  “Ever? Did you say something?” Finn asks from outside. “Hold on, we’re nearly there!”

  “I don’t want to be alone, Ever,” Elle calls out.

  I feel like I’m going to throw up as the realization hits me: I have to go back in.

  “Ever?” Elle never screams, but the panic in her voice tears through me.

  I gulp in fresh air and courage, and shout, “Hold the door open a bit longer. I need to check on—” Eldritch gods, I don’t even know.

  I let go of the crutch. It clatters on the wooden floor loudly, and I jump back from the noise. Outside, Maddy shouts. Finn swears.

  Maddy still has her crutch wedged between herself and the door, but the constant pressure is too much for her.

  The crutch slips. She screams and tries to push it forward, as a makeshift doorstop without the Styrofoam sword there, and I see it happen in slow motion.

  She reaches forward, the tip moving toward me.

  She overstretches, and the crutch neatly topples from her hands onto the porch.

  She pushes herself between the door and the frame, to stop it herself. To save me.

  Then she seems to rethink and jumps away at the last second, because that’s the only right thing to do in this situation.

  The door slams shut.

  Finn apparently lunges for the fallen crutch because mere seconds later, he tries to smash it against the window next to the door, but it hardly seems to do anything. The sound of it is muffled now that there’s a barrier between us.

  I turn and walk back into the cabin, focused on the only thing that still matters.

  “Elle!” She can’t be here. She can’t be. She’s supposed to be at home, in bed already. Or reading one of her books until early morning, so she can spend the rest of the weekend walking around like a zombie.