Drought

by Pam Bachorz

  “Your … mother …,” he says. “She came to the cisterns. She said you were hurt—that you were asking for me.”

  The news of her lie stuns me as much as seeing her hold the chain above Ford’s body. “I wasn’t hurt. I didn’t … I didn’t ask for you.”

  “Then they all came out.” Ford looks around wildly now, then at me. “Where are they?”

  “At dinner, if there is any,” I tell him.

  He puts his hand behind my head and presses me close to him. Our lips touch, softly at first, then hard. I want to taste him, believe that he’s alive.

  But now isn’t the time. I pull away. “We’ve got to go. Can you stand?”

  Ford pushes to his feet; he wobbles, but stays up. “I’m fine,” he answers. “We’ll take the truck.”

  “Yes—” I start, but then I realize that’s not what I need. I’ve ridden down the mountain in that truck. The world goes by too fast. Houses, trees, other trucks flashing by, no time to understand or truly see any of it.

  I hold out my hand. “If you’re able, let’s walk,” I say. “I have to take this slow.”

  I’ll take every bit of it slow. But for now, all we have to do is leave. After that I’ll decide what comes next for me.

  “It’s miles down the mountain,” Ford says. “Can you make it that far?”

  He’s the one who will weaken first, I think. But I only smile. “I’ve harvested water day in and day out in these woods. I’ve spent most of my days walking and stooping.”

  “You’re strong,” Ford says.

  “Yes.” I tug at his hand. “This part will be easy.”

  We walk down the dirt road, keeping to the shadows, and in my mind I tell every tree and branch and bush good-bye.

  I won’t see you again, I tell them. You’ll have to get by without me.

  They’re strong too, they answer. I needn’t worry about them.

  There are no guards tonight. The whole Congregation could slip away. But it will only be me, and Ford.

  When we reach the end of the dirt road—the start of the hard black road with a yellow line and cars zooming past—I pause. I hold one foot over the road.

  “Are you ready?” Ford asks. He gives my hand a squeeze.

  There’s so much for me to learn—and so much for me to tell him, still.

  I close my eyes.

  Otto, give me strength.

  I’m done waiting for someone, even my father, to save me. Today I’ll be the one doing the saving. I already saved Ford.

  Now I save myself.

  I open my eyes. “I’m not ready,” I tell Ford. “But I’ll learn to be.”

  Then I set my boot on that beautiful terrifying hard black road.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My greatest thanks must always go to my family: cheerleaders, salespeople, therapists, all of them, without fail. I offer special gratitude to Patty, who is my one-woman street team, and to my sci-fi consultant, Nick.

  Jason, you carry me when I cannot walk further, and you fly alongside me too. Thank you for always clearing the path to my writing desk.

  Noah, thank you for pulling me away from that writing desk. Let’s go play some baseball.

  My community of writer friends is a true treasure. Thank you for your friendship, good advice, and perspective. In particular, I am grateful to Vivian Fernandez, for guiding me away from the revision ledge and always believing in this story, told my way.

  I owe much to the talented editorial, marketing, and sales teams at Egmont USA, especially my editor, Regina Griffin. Thank you for always believing in my books, and for working so hard to bring them to the world.

  Thank you to my agent, Emily van Beek, for being such a wonderful partner and co-dreamer. Thanks, too, to Elana Roth for helping to bring Drought to the printed page.

  My colleagues in my “other” work life are so supportive and always excited about my writing. Thank you.

  Just as I was finishing work on Drought, our family suffered a terrible loss. My father, just sixty-eight years old, died suddenly. I want to thank all of the friends, colleagues, and family who offered their love and support. I could not have stood again, let alone found joy, without all of you.

  Dad, I will always miss you.

  PAM BACHORZ grew up in a small town in the Adirondack foothills, near the woods in which this novel is set. She left to attend college in Boston and finally decided she was finished after earning four degrees: a BS in journalism, a BA in environmental science, a Masters in library science, and an MBA.

  Pam wrote her first novel, Candor, while living in the Florida planned community that inspired that book. She now lives in the Washington, D.C., area with her husband and son. When she’s not writing, working, or parenting, Pam likes to read books not aimed at her age group, go to museums and theater performances, and watch far too much television. She even goes jogging. Reluctantly.

  Visit her online at www.pambachorz.com.