In the Middle

by S. J. Henderson

  A pained cry shatters the peace of the night. This time I make out a word—Jasper—wrung out from the blood-soaked lips of a broken man. I want to crumple into a heap on the ground, remembering the last time I heard anyone speak that way. The last time I heard someone die. But I can’t let my own demons win when Oliver might need me.

  Instead, I read the forest floor like a passage of Braille, carefully sliding each foot forward before shifting my weight. Foot-slide by painfully-slow foot-slide, I test the dirt in front of me. In another time or place, I could have pretended I was a ninja, relying on my stealth and the gloom of night to keep me safe. I catch my toes on a root snaking its way along my path and launch myself head-first into a bush, dashing my ninja dreams.

  “What are you doing?” a voice hisses from the other side of the bush.

  I clap my hand over my mouth to keep myself from screaming.

  “Get inside,” he commands. Even with his volume practically on mute, Oliver’s over-protectiveness is unmistakable. It would be irritating, too, if I wasn’t so happy to hear him—alive.

  “Chill out,” I say as I remove myself from the Bush of Broken Ninja Dreams. “I heard you screaming.”

  “Oh.” He pauses. “Sorry. But I’m okay, promise.”

  He sure hadn’t sounded okay, but now that I’m not in a headlock with a shrub I can just barely make out Oliver and Jasper’s outline. Neither one of them seems to need my help.

  Confused, we make our way back to the front porch, with Jasper trudging a few steps behind. “I wasn’t trying to be sneaky or anything, I swear. I thought something bad had happened to you.”

  He doesn’t answer for a moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle. “Now that you know I’m fine, will you be okay? Till morning, I mean?”

  “What time is it?” I ask. The fractured bits of sky visible through the cover of trees remain black as ink, with no hint of the graying before dawn.

  “I don’t keep track of time. None of us do. To watch the clock in a place like this would drive you insane.” His words turn thin and brittle, and I regret asking. “Listen, you really need to get indoors. You’re still in danger.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Are you coming with me? I’m not sure I can go back to sleep now.”

  His sigh fills the space between us. “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  “Nighttime isn’t the same for me, Lucy.” His voice trembles like he either wants to snap at me or burst into tears. “I don’t get to rest like you do—it’s part of the curse of this place.”

  “So, you can’t sleep or whatever . . . Come with me anyway. We can hang out or something.” Glancing over my shoulder at his dark form, I rest my hand on the wooden door and nudge it inward with my palm. The hinges squeal in protest and I wince, immediately pulling away.

  “Even if I could go with you, I wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I—I sure would feel better if you’d just get inside and shut the door.”

  “Not without you. I’m kind of freaked out, especially since it’s so dark.”

  “All the more reason for me to stay away.”

  He’s so ridiculously frustrating with all this secrecy. If I thought it would make me feel better, I’d wring his neck for all the games he plays. “Please, don’t leave me alone here. I never thought I’d hear myself say this to you, of all people, but I’m begging you to stay with me.”

  “Lucy, if it were up to me, I’d stay with you every second of every day.”

  My heart thuds again in my throat at his words, and I swallow hard to send it back to its rightful place in my chest. “If it’s not up to you, then who is it up to?”

  I don’t need him to answer my question and he doesn’t try. Whoever’s in charge here has already left their mark on me, a handprint seared into my arm and a blistering line running down toward my neck. If The Conductors don’t make the rules, they at least enforce them. That gives them as much authority as anybody around here, I guess.

  Oliver has done so much to keep me safe so far. The last thing I want is to lure The Conductors here to his front porch. Not when a few steps will put an inch of wood between me and evil.

  “Well, see you when I see you, then,” I say as I slip into the cabin.

  Oliver’s reply is the fade of hoofbeats into the brush. I immediately miss him, which makes no sense to me. Maybe I miss him because the darkness of Mitte holds such terror, and I want him to be around to save me from it. Or maybe the unthinkable has happened and I actually care for him in some way. Whatever the reason, my body feels heavier with him gone. Without Oliver, all of this feels hopeless.

  Shutting the door behind me with a clunk, I lean against the gnarled wood and rest my palm on my forehead. Too many thoughts swirl in my brain, and I shake my head to break them apart. If only it was that easy.

  Smoke curls around me, and I bolt upright in bed. Fear bursts within my chest, my eyes wide and desperate. I don’t know how long I slept, but judging by the sunbeams filtering through the window, it was too long. The Conductors are probably waiting outside, ready to transfer me or whatever, and I’ve almost missed it. Yeah, I’m so tricky I’ve overslept for my own execution. Just my luck.

  I peek out the window, but the angle’s all wrong for spotting anyone out front. Acid rises in my throat as I consider my options: hide out forever in the cabin, or square my jaw like a brave little soldier and surrender.

  This one time, Tanya made me watch a movie where the evil spirits couldn’t cross over a line of salt—or maybe sugar—on the floor. Maybe these flimsy walls are enough to hold off Satan’s sidekicks, but I’m not feeling too confident about the cabin’s chances against beings made entirely out of fire. Holing myself up here will only buy me time until the inevitable.

  Shoot. Brave little soldier it is.

  If The Conductors are going to try to lay their hands on me, I’ll need something to protect me from their burning touch. My gaze darts around the small room, searching for something to cover my skin, but there’s not much here. Not even a stitch of clothing hangs in the open closet. Ghosts apparently don’t have a problem with wearing the same old thing day after day. It cuts down on laundry, which is definitely a bonus, but seems pretty boring. And, currently, it’s pretty inconvenient for me. With a sigh, I slide the delicate quilt from Oliver’s bed and wrap it around my body. The yellowed fabric is like a familiar touch against my skin. Oliver’s mother or grandmother probably spent a great deal of time stitching the pieces together by hand, perhaps even as they rocked in the very chair in the center of his cabin. If I turn his family heirloom into a pile of ashes, I hope he can find it in his heart to forgive me. I just can’t let those . . . things . . . brand me again.

  I hesitate at the door. If I catch The Conductors off guard, I can still try to outrun them. Not that long ago, I could shoot out of the blocks like a rocket. My ankle aches and my hip will never be the same after the surgeons welded me back together, but if I need to run to escape danger maybe I can force all the parts to work together. Besides, how fast can a bunch of dudes on fire really be?

  Okay, dumb question. Forget I asked.

  Wrapped in the comforter like a caterpillar burrowed in its cocoon, I take a deep breath to quell my nausea and shuffle to the door. By facing my fear, even the fear of certain death, I am evolving into something stronger than I was hours, and even minutes, before. First, though, I curse Oliver for not installing a peephole for his stupid, creaky door. With one last gulp of air, I throw it open. What happens next needs to happen fast—no reason to drag it out.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Oliver says, stabbing at a crackling fire with a long iron poker.

  I furrow my eyebrows. “The . . .” Can I speak their name out loud or not? “You know, those things that nearly killed me yesterday. They’re not here?”

  “No, they aren’t. Why would you think that?” It’s his turn to look confused.

  Relief was
hes over me, and I let the quilt fall loose around my shoulders. “The smoke woke me up.”

  “Sorry about that. I reckon you must be hungry.”

  A row of hot dogs sizzles and pops on a rack above the fire and my mouth waters. Yesterday I’d been planning on eating ice cream—chocolate chip!—with the kids, but obviously that hadn’t worked out. I’m hungry, which is the only thing I’m sure about anymore.

  The morning air is growing thick and damp already, so I toss the quilt inside the cabin door before joining him.

  Using a long fork, Oliver rolls the hot dogs over to make sure they cook evenly. Hot dogs seem like a pretty modern food choice for an old soul, but nothing about him can possibly surprise me more than finding out who he really is. What he really is.

  I watch him work in silence, admiring the flash of flames in the liquid of his eyes. “Do you eat?” I ask, finally.

  “Sure. But I don’t need to.”

  My stomach growls. “Must be nice to be able to choose.”

  He arranges four hot dog buns on the wire rack above the fire, seeming to arrange his thoughts as he does. “People get stuck doing the same ol’ thing day after day—eating, working, loving, losing. When we die, a lot of things die with us. But those of us who are stuck don’t have a whole lot to be happy for, so we try to remember what made us happy before. Most of us love a good meal.”

  “When you say ‘good meal,’ does that really include hot dogs?” I joke.

  “What’s wrong with hot dogs? Everyone loves hot dogs!”

  “My mom wouldn’t let me ea—” I stop myself short at the thought of my mother. I miss her, even her crazy obsession with ridding the house of processed food.

  We sit in silence for a few minutes until Oliver swipes a toasted bun from the rack and fills it with a plump hot dog. With a wink, he hands it off to me. “What your mama don’t know won’t hurt her. Dig in.”

  A bag near Oliver’s feet holds little packets of ketchup, mustard, and relish (ick!). I grab a handful of ketchup packets and sink to the ground several feet back from the fire. Using my teeth, I tear into one of the packets and squirt a zigzag of red onto my dog. The routine of prepping my meal is so boring, so normal, in a place where nothing is normal. It’s comforting.

  I chew and swallow a bite before I gather enough courage for my next question. “Everyone here is dead?”

  When I look to him, his gaze is lost deep within the dance of the flames, his mouth pulled in a thin line. My answer—to that question, at least. I have loads more.

  “My family isn’t—wasn’t—real religious.” I hesitate. “But I’ve always been taught that when you, uh, die, you either go up or you go down.”

  I haven’t even reached the question and tension already hums from Oliver’s body. Do I really want to know?

  He clenches his jaw, waiting for me to continue.

  Yes, I do want to know, especially if it means I’ll understand. “If all of that’s true, then why did you end up here?”

  He turns his sad eyes to mine.

  Chapter 14

  Regret.

  Something holds each person in Mitte captive like chains around their ankles. Something they wished they’d been able to do in life, something they wished to change. The more I think about it, the more the pieces fall into place. Miss Millie hadn’t been able to feed the family she worked for, so she watched them wither away before her eyes. Vera, the waitress at Sal’s Diner, stole from her friend but hadn’t been able to make it right while her heart still beat in her chest. These people carried such guilt and pain with them to the grave—and now, beyond.

  My life overflows with things I wish I could have done differently, so it makes a lot of sense for me to be stuck in this kind of purgatory. Except Oliver’s sure I’m not dead. Maybe death had messed with his mind and he’s confused. Death, I get. Still being alive and losing everything—that doesn’t make one ounce of sense.

  When I ask Oliver why he’s stuck in Mitte, he stops talking. I’ve pushed him too far, and I know it. After we finish our meal, I wander away to give him a little space.

  I don’t really want to know all their stories, I decide as I amble through the forest. I can’t even handle my own crap. Taking on more than that will crush me.

  But, then, why am I here?

  When I get back to the cabin, Oliver’s put out the fire with a bucket of water. My skin crawls at the sizzle of the protesting embers and the cloud of smoke, reminders of The Conductors. I shudder and wrap my arms around myself as I lower to the edge of the porch.

  Oliver must have noticed my shiver, because he sits down beside me and hands me a coffee mug.

  “Careful,” he warns. “It’s hot.”

  I dare to take the tiniest of sips, my taste buds jerking in shock at the heat. Hot chocolate.

  Even in the shade of the pines, the temperature soars and the thickness of the air plasters my clothes to my body. A warm drink is an odd choice. But, hey, it’s Oliver. Odd barely scratches the surface.

  “Hot cocoa makes everyone feel better. It’s like home in a cup,” he says.

  I’d never really thought about it before, but he’s right. With each cautious sip, the memories flood back.

  Christmas Eve, nestled on the couch with my parents, a fire crackling in the fireplace. Some years, the weather would cooperate, sending snow to the ground like countless feathers outside the picture window. Other years, we sat on the couch, hopeful for a change in luck. Dad always insisted Mom and I unwrap a small gift while we cuddled there; he loved to give his girls gifts so much that his impatience won out one year. The tradition stuck; same with Mom’s roses.

  All of that from a cup of cocoa. I blink down at the murky liquid, and then to Oliver. His thoughts seem a million miles away, even though he’s staring at the patch sewn to the knee of his pants.

  I fiddle with the tail of my scarf. “What was your home like?”

  Snapped back into the present, he nods toward the cabin. “You’re looking at it.”

  My mouth twitches. By home, I hadn’t meant the actual building, but I guess I need to be more specific. “Cool, but what about your family?”

  “I had an older brother, Martin; and a little sister, Agatha. And, of course, my Ma and Pop.”

  “All of you fit in that tiny space?”

  “There used to be a loft; that’s where us children slept. My parents used the bed where you spent last night,” he said.

  “There used to be a loft? What happened to it?”

  Oliver returns to staring at his knee. He picks at an errant stitch on the corner of the patch. “I took it down. I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore after . . .” His mouth clamps shut. I don’t need to ask if something awful had taken place here. The answer reflects in the slope of his shoulders and the droop of his expression. His response is familiar, down to him clearing his throat and brushing away a tear before anyone else gets a good look. We’re more alike than I first thought.

  He rubs his face with his callused hands and exhales. “I haven’t thought about any of that in a real long time. No offense, but I’m not about to start now.”

  I blink in surprise. “Uh, okay. Forget I asked.”

  With a nod, he accepts this and moves on. His eyes, normally sparkling and mischievous, are hollow and haunted. Doc Blevins said that Oliver still has hope, which I didn’t really understand at the time. I’m not sure I really get it now, honestly. But now that his smile’s gone, I miss it. His warmth really is the most hopeful thing in this place. Without it, my heart aches with enough force to almost wring itself in two.

  I like him. I really, really like him.

  No, I don’t. Guys are evil.

  Then why is Oliver getting to me so bad? My palms are sweating and everything.

  Hello! It’s like a billion degrees out and I’m drinking hot chocolate. My whole body is drenched. If I like him, it’s by default. He’s the only guy my age here.

  But I don’t like him—and I won’t�
�because I won’t let another guy get close. Not after stupid Derek. I wasn’t even trying to be with that colossal jerk and he still ruined my life. Right now Oliver’s nothing like Derek, true; but give him time.

  Do I really believe that?

  Almost as if he’s listening in on my crazy inner debate, Oliver looks up from his mug. His inky hair falls over one eye, and my fingers long to reach out and brush it to the side so both of his eyes can focus their intensity on mine. I imagine the feel of his skin beneath my touch, running from his temple to his jaw, where he . . .

  I jump to my feet, ignoring the stab of pain that shoots down my spine. “Let’s go somewhere,” I say. We can’t sit still anymore, not if I expect to keep myself from Oliver.

  The tension holding us together in the moment snaps like a rubber band stretched beyond its limits. Frowning, he leans away. He felt the connection, too. I’m sure of it.

  “Okay.” He reaches toward me and my gaze drops to his outstretched hand. After a frozen moment, he stands and closes the distance between us.

  My mouth dries up and I struggle to swallow. Our eyes connect, and I can’t breathe.

  This is it. I don’t know what it is, but this is it.

  Oliver grabs the mug from me, his fingers whispering against mine, then dumps the last little bit of hot chocolate onto the ground. “Where do you want to go?”

  I shrug, trying to push against the magnetic pull between us. Beneath my skin, my pulse thunders out of control like a herd of mustangs.

  What’s happening to me?

  I force a smile for Oliver. “I dunno. What do you usually do during the day—I mean, when you’re not rescuing me and stuff?”