Meet the Sky

by McCall Hoyle

  Finn grips my head in both his hands, then leans in to me. His lips brush the edge of my ear when he speaks. “That’s got to come out.”

  Closing my eyes, I shake my head. Uh-uh. Not happening. I’ve seen this sort of thing in movies, and I’m pretty sure the person bleeds out when the arrow or knife or whatever is removed. The pink spreading down my arm and abdomen is bad enough. Spurts of blood would send me over the brink to hysteria. The wind changes directions suddenly, and I stagger. He tightens his grip on me.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” The set of his jaw and the tone in his voice command my attention.

  The boy gripping my face in his strong hands shares zero resemblance to the class clown I’m used to. Now he’s all hardcore, one hundred percent rescuer doing everything he can to save me. I appreciate his help, but I need a second to think. I can’t make any mistakes here. Mom and Mere’s future hinges on me keeping myself safe as well.

  He swats at a piece of newspaper swishing past our heads. The wind continues to strengthen. We won’t be able to stay upright out here in the middle of the road much longer. We need shelter, and fast.

  “Look at me,” he says, waiting for me to meet his eyes. “Breathe. Listen. That’s gotta come out.”

  I’m listening. I can agree with him on the heading north toward the fire department part of his plan. But the ripping the metal out of my already bloody shoulder part, I’m not so sure I can handle.

  “We can’t bandage it like that. It needs pressure to stop the bleeding. Plus . . . if it shifts, it could cause more damage.” He grips my good shoulder with one hand. His other hand hovers near the ruined one.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and lower my head, too exhausted to argue. Then a rip of pain tears through every fiber of my being. Muscles I didn’t know I had around my stomach tighten. Some sort of primal snarl erupts from my guts and shreds the night. Curse him for yanking it out without warning me.

  Obviously alarmed by my fury, he freezes. The pain constricts my lungs. I close my eyes again, trying to catch my breath. Then his strong hands clamp down on my injured shoulder. The deep pressure dulls the pain a bit.

  He presses his forehead to mine. “Sophie, breathe.” His words ebb and flow with the pressure he applies to my shoulder.

  Closing my eyes, I exhale, then rock my upper body back and forth, back and forth, and try to block out the pain as he rips at his shirt with his free hand. Seconds later, he laces a piece of cloth under my armpit and over my shoulder.

  “Breathe. Breathe. Breathe,” he chants. As he fumbles around the wound, the cord I used to hang Mere’s compass around my neck tangles in his fingers. He gently lifts it over my head.

  “I think . . . I’m . . .” I whisper, my voice hoarse as he slides the compass into a pj pocket.

  “Good job, Soph.” He clamps down a little harder on my shoulder.

  Despite the pain, despite the howling wind, despite the flying debris, something in my chest cracks or loosens. I can’t be sure which. No one has called me Soph since before the accident.

  No one has called me Soph since Dad left.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Half the night I waste in sighs.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  When we finally reach the volunteer fire department, it’s deserted, locked up tight. A metal pulley clangs a warning against the vacated flagpole. I should’ve gone with my gut—should’ve known the firefighters would have moved farther south to the more populated areas where they could be of more assistance. I don’t have enough energy to be disappointed. I just want to sit down somewhere—anywhere. But there’s nowhere to sit, and Finn just keeps walking.

  He holds a massive trash can lid in front of us to deflect whatever the gale-force winds might throw at us next. If I weren’t so exhausted, I might laugh. I mean, he’s protecting me from flying debris with a trash can lid. It must be hard to play the chivalrous knight with such an awful shield. But he presses forward anyway.

  All the houses up here are on the beach side of the road. They’re bigger than the cottage we left behind. They’re sturdier, but they’re no safer from the encroaching storm surge. The middle of the road is looking like a pretty comfy spot to sit when Finn points to a driveway on the left.

  Left is good. Left is inland. Left is farther from the rising tide.

  A driveway disappears through a tangle of scrub brush near the mailbox. The small trees and low bushes lining the way bend at ninety-degree angles. The vengeful storm smashes them against the sandy ground like grassy pancakes.

  “Should we try it?” he screams at me over his shoulder.

  I nod, too weak to answer. We trudge up the driveway. When we break through the trees, we see not one but two buildings perched on top of the dunes. Of course, I can’t make out any of the details, but two shadows are punctuating the dark horizon, and I see no creepy flickering lights. Maybe this is one of those expensive homes with its own guest cottage.

  I should be happy the driveway’s so steep. It means high elevation and protection from the storm surge. It also means more work, more climbing, and more energy. I’ll never make it if I don’t sit down for a second.

  “Finn!” I try to scream, but the strong wind squashes my weak voice.

  He tromps forward without acknowledging me. I should follow, but I can’t resist the temptation of the massive driftwood at the edge of the driveway. Easing myself down to the log, I baby my bad shoulder, careful not to jostle it.

  The compass slips from my pocket to the ground. I rest my foot on its cord so it won’t blow away. I’ll grab it in a second. I just need to sit still—to not move anything for a minute. I clamp my teeth together and try to silence their chattering.

  The one good thing about the icy rain is it numbs the pain in my shoulder. It kind of numbs my thoughts too. Maybe I’ll just sit out the storm here. Careful to avoid any sudden movements that might reignite the pain, I half slouch, half lean against a twisted arm of driftwood rising from the main trunk. I’m starting to think my plan is so basic, it might work.

  Then my comical knight in shining armor with his improvised shield realizes I’m not with him and comes back determined to rescue me.

  “Come on. We’re almost there.” He grabs my hand.

  I shake my head, praying he’ll leave me alone. “I just need to sit a minute. You go ahead.”

  “No.” He tugs me to my feet. “I’m not going anywhere without you. We’re in this together.”

  I want to argue. We’re not in this together. I can take care of myself, but I don’t have the energy to disagree.

  He wraps an arm around my waist. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”

  Based on the way he’s been protecting his own injured ribs, I’m pretty sure he’s bluffing. The thought of me slung over his shoulder with my butt in his face is an embarrassing enough mental image that I dig deep and fan the dying embers of my determination. “No. I can do it.”

  Somehow, we make it up the hill together, leaning into the wind and each other. Finn aims for the big house, but I steer us toward the smaller building on the left. It’s kind of protected by the larger building in front of it, and we need all the protection we can get. Up here, we’re totally safe from the storm surge, but the wind gusts are even stronger. The sound morphs from the roaring freight train I’ve grown accustomed to into a thunderous buzz, like something out of a science fiction movie. I clamp my hands over my ears to block out the disorienting sound. I want to sit down and curl up in the duck-and-cover position we practice at school during severe weather drills. But we’re so close.

  Finn rattles the door. Of course, it’s locked. Unlike me back at the cottage, Finn doesn’t hesitate to break the small, uncovered window on the door. Careful to avoid the jagged glass, he slips his hand through the opening, finds the knob, and opens the door. Once inside, I stagger toward a sectional sofa in the center of what appears to be an open kitchen and living area. Finn shines the light around the almost bare interior, and I de
cide some single guy must live here, because there are zero decorations and the TV is obnoxiously large. Luckily, the larger windows have been boarded up really well, and—thank God—there’s a very masculine pile of firewood stacked beside what appears to be a working fireplace.

  Finn leans against the closed door as I slump on the couch, trying to catch my breath. Hugging myself, I vow to get up in a minute. I just need to close my eyes and breathe. The throbbing in my shoulder should subside if I lie perfectly still. I hear Finn exploring the house, and once in a while a drawer opens and closes.

  I try to calculate how many hours of this horror we have left. The few times I’ve ridden out storms at home, the worst never lasted more than twelve to twenty-four hours. The storm surge might be dangerous for a few days. We might be without power and water longer than that, but the winds should die down drastically by this time tomorrow.

  We’ll make it. People can survive anything for thirty-six hours, right? I mean, I’ve seen mares laboring to deliver their foals for two days.

  I’m tough.

  I can handle this.

  I can.

  I keep my eyes squeezed shut as Finn clanks around at the fireplace. A match strikes. The familiar sound of kindling crackling and popping punctuates the deafening buzz of the wind. Heat caresses my cheek, like Dad’s hands when I was little.

  I focus on breathing, and not moving, and not thinking about anything—just clearing my mind and breathing. When a warm hand wiggles mine, I jump. I was so focused on myself, I kind of lost track of Finn and his bumbling around the house.

  “I’m so tired. What time is it?” I groan and blink, trying to clear the cobwebs from my aching head. Clearly, I need to stick to silence and stillness.

  “It’s late—the middle of the night, I think. You’ve been lying here awhile.”

  Reaching for the back of the couch, I wrestle myself to a half-seated position when the realization that I’ve lost Mere’s compass hits me.

  He places a firm hand on top of mine on the cushion. “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head, unable to speak.

  “Where does it hurt? What’s wrong?” he asks.

  I try to swing my legs off the side of the couch, but they barely move. “The compass. I lost the compass.”

  He shoulders relax. “I’ll find the compass. We need to get you in some dry clothes first and clean your shoulder.” Finn sits beside me on the couch, his hip pressing against mine, his face illuminated by the fire.

  His we brings me to attention like a double shot of espresso. We might be stranded together in this storm. We might even share a Twinkie and story time. But we are not changing my clothes or cleaning my shoulder. I’m learning to tolerate Finn Sanders, but I’m not ready to do anything more than that.

  “I’m fine. I can—” Pain rips through my shoulder when I try to sit up. My throat burns. Hurricane winds are usually cold, but this place feels like the arctic.

  “You took care of me earlier. It’s my turn to take care of you.”

  No, sir. Not happening.

  When his hand brushes my arm, his eyes widen. He lifts my hand a little, pressing it to his cheek, then rests his free hand on my forehead. His already wide eyes threaten to pop from his skull.

  “Crap. You’re freezing.” He brushes matted hair off my cold cheek.

  “It’s the storm and this house,” I say, praying his eyeballs don’t fall into my lap.

  “It’s not the house or the storm. Were you feeling sick earlier?”

  I shake my head, too tired to argue.

  He rakes his fingers through his hair, then grabs a pillow and a cushion from the far end of the huge couch. “Maybe you’ve lost too much blood. We need to elevate your feet. And we need to make sure you stay hydrated and warm.”

  When he scurries away, I assume it’s for blankets and something to drink.

  Trying to stay warm like he said, I wedge my hands into my armpits. Fresh blood rushes down my chest. It’s warm. That’s for sure. Even in the dim light, the angry red fluid stains the Crab Shack T-shirt, making the old stains pale pink by comparison.

  He reappears, blanket in hand, smiling encouragingly until his eyes drop from my face to the seeping stain on my shirt.

  “Holy crap, Sophie! You’re still bleeding.”

  “Yeah.” The room spins, and I close my eyes. He shuffles around the couch. When he bumps into something, he curses under his breath. I’m too exhausted to care. A second later, he’s kneeling on the floor beside me, reaching through the neck of my shirt and pressing a dark towel to my wound. I don’t know if it’s the blood loss or just the exhaustion from fighting the storm, but even with Finn so close, I can’t seem to bring his face into focus. I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the fuzziness of the world around me.

  He continues applying pressure to my shoulder as I continue breathing and squeezing my eyes shut. Finally, he gets up and bangs around the kitchen. The house moans and groans around us like it’s fighting to stay upright. Every once in a while, a gunshot-like pierce of wood snapping punctuates the night.

  We can’t win. Up here, we’re sitting ducks, waiting for the next gust of wind to blow us to smithereens. Gritting my teeth, I push myself a few inches higher on the couch pillows and try to survey the house for any noticeable damage.

  As I peer around the shadowy room, Finn’s bare feet shuffle across the wood floor. Our eyes meet when he steps in front of the fire. I try to smile but can’t. The pain in my shoulder locks the muscles in my face. My stomach tightens at the sight of the bottles clutched against his chest. One of them looks like the Jack Daniels Dad grew so fond of before he jumped ship. I can’t be certain, but it looks like he’s also got honey and lemon juice and God only knows what else.

  The last thing I want to do now is have some kind of pitiful hurricane party.

  Scratch that. The last thing I want to do is become my father.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I found Him in the shining of the stars.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  Finn peers down at me on the couch, his perceptive gaze on my face raising the temperature of my chilly cheeks several degrees. When I tell him I don’t drink, he bursts out laughing.

  “You seriously think I’m trying to get you drunk? In a hurricane? When you’re sick?” He sets bottles and a pair of scissors on the coffee table, then settles beside me on the edge of the couch. His mouth is smiling, but the skin between his brows pinches together.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think I hurt his feelings. “Maybe. Everybody says you’ll do anything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like surf in a hurricane,” I say pointedly. “And if you’ll do that, you’ll do . . .”

  “Do what?” he asks as he plucks the whiskey bottle from the table and uncaps it.

  “Just about anything . . . and . . .” Squirming, I hope he doesn’t ask why I’ve been listening to what people have been saying about him or why I would be interested. If the tips of my ears burn any hotter, they might warm my body and the entire room. I curl my toes into the couch cushions, wishing I could disappear, or at least create space between the two of us.

  “We’re not drinking this.” He holds the whiskey up to my face. “It’s for your shoulder. I think I got the bleeding stopped for good, but I couldn’t find any first aid supplies or Tylenol.”

  “Oh,” I say, sounding as awkward as I feel.

  With his free hand, he plucks the scissors off the table and extends them to the collar of my shirt.

  Wincing, I swat his hand away from my collarbone. “I can do it myself.”

  “You sure about that?” he asks, placing the scissors back on the table.

  “I’m positive. Just help me up.”

  He sits frozen in place, mouth open a little, as if I’ve insulted him or surprised him. Tilting his head, he studies my face. “I can’t believe it. You don’t trust me, do you?”

  Uhhh, maybe. Maybe not. “I didn’t say that.�
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  “You don’t have to. Your face did.”

  “Just help me to the bathroom. I’ll do what you say.” I gesture at the supplies on the table.

  He holds my elbow as I hoist myself to my feet, then guides me to a cramped bathroom at the back of the dark house. The room spins as I lower myself to the icy toilet seat. If the living room was arctic, the bathroom is a freaking tundra. I try to keep from shivering as he heads back to the living room. When he returns a minute later, he lines the bottles on the counter beside me, then waits for me to meet his eyes.

  “This is what I want you to do. Rinse your shoulder with the whiskey—gently. We don’t want any more bleeding. The whiskey’s not as good as rubbing alcohol or peroxide, but it’s better than dirty water or nothing. Then squeeze lemon juice on the wound. It will burn, but the acid in the lemon will kill some of the tougher germs.”

  “We’re not marinating a steak,” I argue, careful not to move too suddenly.

  “No. It’s more like dressing a turkey.” He pauses, smirking, clearly impressed with his little play on words. If my shoulder didn’t hurt so badly, I might have a comeback, but I’m too exhausted to argue.

  “What’s the honey for?” I ask, concentrating on one spot on the floor so the room won’t tilt or spin.

  “Honey has natural antibiotic properties.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” I stall, waiting for him to leave the room. I’m not taking off my shirt until he’s on the other side of a closed door.

  “Mom and I spent as much time searching for homeopathic remedies and miracle cures as we did sitting in doctors’ office waiting rooms. I told you we accepted Dad’s death, and it was peaceful. But that doesn’t mean we just gave up as soon as he was diagnosed. We would have done anything to keep him alive. But when the suffering set in, we loved him too much . . .”

  “I see,” I say, pushing myself to my feet and clutching the edge of the counter with my cold fingers. I’m not so sure I do see. But I don’t want to be rude, and if I don’t do what he says fast, I might pass out. “Okay. Jack Daniels, lemon, honey. Got it.”