by E. R. Arroyo
One of Dylan’s arms is still wrapped around me, supporting my neck. His free hand moves toward my face, but he stops himself before making contact. At least he tries not to touch me. “Listen to me. Nathan is responsible for their deaths. Not you.”
I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes even though I feel his gaze. He can’t possibly mean that.
“I’m sorry, Dylan,” I force out, fighting off tears. “I’m sorry about Alyssa.” He should hate me.
“I’m sorry, too.” How could he be so kind? I go back and forth over what I should say, if there’s anything I even could say, but he beats me to the punch, knocking me completely off guard. “Who are you crying for?” he asks.
“What?” I didn’t realize I was crying.
“Titus?”
I can’t hide the pain the mention of his name causes, but I don’t even understand it. Titus and I were barely friends, but there was something in him I felt connected to. Besides Dylan he was the only person who saw me. And here’s Dylan seeing me now--seeing me falling apart when I’m supposed to be strong. I was supposed to be the one with the plan, the grand escape to save my friends.
I failed.
I don’t even try to stop the tears. They fall on their own volition.
Dylan’s body tenses and his face contorts--it looks like pain. His hand hovers over my shoulder and I lean away from him and cover my face, preferring to suffer alone even though that isn’t an option in these tight quarters. His hand lands firmly on my shoulder and his voice quivers, “Please.” I meet his eyes, trembling.
“Please, what?” I ask through a sob.
“Let me comfort you.”
Before I can put up a fight, a sigh escapes me, and Dylan pulls me into the warmest embrace I’ve ever felt in my life--not that I’ve had many. His hand cups the back of my head as I sob into his neck. He rocks me back and forth, squeezing me so tightly it almost hurts.
When I’ve finally cried all I can, I pull back to breathe. A voice in my head screams for him to let go, but I sense this moment isn’t just about me. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but Dylan must be grieving, too, so I try my hardest not to hurt him.
“I saw her hug you. If they had scanned me, they would have seen it. I was trying to save her. I was trying to save you both.” I’m rambling, but I can’t stand the silence when it’s so loud inside my head.
“She shouldn’t have done that.”
“I used to imagine you on the outside,” I whisper. The corner of his mouth turns upward. “The two of you.” The smile disappears.
“I used to picture me on the outside, too. But not with her.” I meet his eyes, startled by the intensity there. Why is he being so cryptic? “When you used to talk about escaping,” he says, pushing my messy bangs from my face, “I always wanted to go with you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, baffled. It’s unimaginable. Dylan was always my enabler, but I thought he merely tolerated me, that he was happy in Antius. I couldn’t imagine him wanting to leave.
“You were so bent on being on your own. Keeping me at a distance,” he says. I try to look away, but there’s nowhere to turn. “And for some insane reason, you filled your head with this fantasy about me and Alyssa. But I’ve spent years wanting nothing more than to jump that fence with you.”
This is not true--it can’t be. Dylan’s my best friend, but Dylan loving Alyssa is what kept me safe with him. I knew Dylan cared about me, but I needed to believe he would be fine without me. I was just using him, wasn’t I? Because he could help me escape? Isn’t that why we were friends?
“She was crazy about you.”
He takes a long, steady breath. “I’m sorry she’s gone, but I’m crazy about you. I have been all along.”
I finally meet his eyes, ready to call his bluff, and then his lips are on mine, soft and hard at the same time. A gentle touch with intense passion combined in one small gesture. And he feels...fragile...but no less strong. No amount of poems or stories could have prepared me for Dylan’s lips against mine. His warmth is all the poetry I could ever stand to know. But I don’t want this. I didn’t ask for it.
This is Dylan, I think. I start to pull away but he runs his hand across my face, grazing my cheekbone as his fingers slide through my hair and settle at the nape of my neck. He glides his thumb back and forth on my jaw. It’s gentler than I would have thought he could be. The touch of his fingers on my skin paralyzes me, and I don’t stop him like I should.
When his lips release me, his embrace becomes even tighter than before. The pressure hurts my chest, and I realize it must be the wounds.
“Ow,” I manage, before darting my hand protectively to my chest. He instantly loosens his hold.
His shaky hand hovers over my chest, but doesn’t touch. “I’m sorry.” His breath stutters out as though he’s freezing cold. Is he nervous like me?
“I’m okay.” I can’t make sense of what I’m feeling. I want to crawl out of this tiny prison and run far away to untangle all this confusion. “I need out.” I begin to scramble toward the opening.
“Wait.” I realize his whole body’s trembling, not just his hands. “We can’t go yet.”
“The rain’s clearing up. I feel fine now. We can keep moving.”
“It’s not you,” he says, shakily.
“What’s wrong?” I wonder if he was injured in the escape.
“Withdrawals. I feel it,” he tells me.
“What do you mean?”
“My body has to acclimate to being off the meds. I already have a fever, and I’m probably going to shake more. Don’t freak out on me, we just have to wait it out.”
“How do you know all this?” I’m a bit taken aback. This admiration business has got to stop. If only he were less impressive. But if he were less impressive, would I have been drawn to his friendship to begin with?
“You think you’re the only one who sneaks around with an electronic book?” He grins, and even though he’s covered in sweat, there’s something so charming about him. Have I never noticed?
His chattering teeth are perfect, and those aren’t the only things. His jaw is just masculine enough, but doesn’t have harsh angles. Even the shape of his lips is attractive. He’s a perfect example of what sanctioned procreation is capable of--perhaps the only argument in favor of the atrocious practice. I’d bet his mother was breathtaking.
I notice sweat dripping down his neck, and his bottom lip quivers. For another half hour, I watch him in silence until his entire body is trembling.
“What can I do?” I rub his arm, returning the gesture he’d given me, but knowing it’s probably not making any difference.
Through chattering teeth, he says, “Water.”
“We can’t. What if it’s contaminated? How will I know?”
“I guess...we’ll have to...r-risk it,” he strains to say. “B-be careful. They’re probably close.”
As I shimmy upward, Dylan’s trembling hand slides down my side, my hip, my leg, until I’m halfway past him and accidentally knee him in the chin.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, but he doesn’t respond.
Once I’m past him, I’m able to crawl on my belly instead of my side. Right before the opening, I pause to listen. My hand settles on torn fabric, which I realize is my shredded up shirt. There’s blood on a lot of it, but I grab hold of a clean piece and bring it with me.
Outside the tree, I enter a thick brush that’s soaked from a recent downpour. Still on my knees, I dip my head to the moist earth and inhale. I’m not sure what toxic rain water would smell like, but I know what clean smells like, so hopefully I can tell the difference.
I don’t smell anything. Just dirt. I crawl farther from our tree tunnel, and as I get free of the thick brush, I stand up in a small clearing. The tree is a great hiding place, almost completely hidden by fresh, spring foliage.
I listen to the air, hoping I might hear a stream or creek, which I don’t. Afraid to stray too far, I direct my
attention to the trees and shrubs surrounding me. I find a large leaf with droplets resting on the surface. I sniff the water, careful not to knock it off.
It smells clean. I gently lift the leaf toward my mouth and take a deep breath. I have to test it. I tip the leaf toward my mouth and allow the drops to fall onto my tongue. I squeeze my eyes shut while I assess.
Five deep inhales and five long exhales pass before I realize nothing has happened, nor could I taste anything abnormal. But what if I’m immune? That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t taste it, right?
I drink off of several more leaves before I decide the water seems safe, and there’s only one thing left to do. Get it to Dylan. But I have no idea how--I didn’t exactly bring a cup. I pull the fabric scrap from my back pocket. If I can find a stream, I can saturate it and squeeze the water into Dylan’s mouth.
I step toward a clearing when I hear a noise across the way. My heart kicks up, and I fly toward the brush. I drop the fabric as my foot slips in a puddle, knocking me off balance. I recover swiftly and keep moving when it dawns on me--if they find the fabric, they’ll know we’re close.
I turn back and drop to my knees to recover the scrap, which has fallen in the puddle. I jog back as quietly as I can. When I reach the bushes, I crawl on my hands and knees, the shirt still clutched in my fist.
Men’s voices and footsteps follow me as I grow nearer the tree’s opening. My heart races while they get closer and closer, as if they know right where I am. I’m glad I grabbed the shirt, because they walked right over that puddle.
As I’m about to crawl inside the tree, a voice calls out, “Wait,” and it’s dangerously close to me. All the men stop. “I heard movement.” He says.
“There are six of us, sir,” a soldier tells him. I can tell a soldier when I hear one.
I’m frozen still, hoping my breathing isn’t as loud to them as it is to me.
“It was over here,” Sir says. He’s so close. His footsteps fall even closer now.
“I’ll help you look,” the same soldier calls and stomps over. Heavy arms slash through the shrubs around me, and if I stay put, he’ll catch me. I make the move and leaves crinkle under my knees. I crawl inside, far enough that I can pull my feet away from the light near the mouth.
Looking over my shoulder, I see the leaves being jostled. But I don’t see any faces, and I don’t hear any evidence that I’m caught.
I exhale quietly.
The men continue walking and searching all around us, but they don’t find us.
When I sense the men are at least a few yards away, I slide in the rest of the way to where Dylan is. He’s still trembling and covered in sweat.
I touch his face but he doesn’t open his eyes. I draw the soaked cloth toward his mouth. Though I can’t know for sure that it’s safe, he needs it.
I force the cloth between his lips and squeeze the puddle water into his mouth. It doesn’t seem like enough to make a difference, but I can’t go back. Not now, with Nathan’s men crawling around looking for me.
Why would they come after me? I’m just one girl. What are they so worried about? The odds are greater that I’ll die in the wilderness than do anything that could possibly matter to them.
I lay the cloth on Dylan’s forehead, not sure what else to do. After a moment, the area grows quiet, so I settle back in beside him. All I can do is dab the sweat off his face and wait.
“Please wake up.” I think about all the years I dreamed of this escape. I laugh inside myself at the grandeur I expected to accompany such a feat. And to think I imagined doing all this alone--one girl against the world. Who I thought I was, I don’t know, but what I was is simple: naive.
It takes only a moment to realize how glad I am that Dylan’s with me--and right now “with me” is a rather loose interpretation--and how badly I need him. I shake my head at the word need. I don’t want to need anyone. Maybe I don’t. If he ever wakes up, the company will be nice, but certainly not necessary.
Who knows, maybe he’ll even slow me down.
No, I’m pretty sure he saved my life today.
It’s okay. This is going to be okay. I just have to set some boundaries. Dylan is my friend, so he will respect my feelings. I will thank him for saving me, and then I will kindly ask him to keep his hands--and lips--to himself. I’m sick and tired of being touched. First Nathan and Titus, now Dylan.
It’ll be fine. I just have to wake him up.
Over the next half hour, his body shakes progressively harder. I’m terrified and hate that I don’t know how to help. When the tables were turned, he knew exactly what to do. I’d give anything to return the favor.
He’s covered in sweat, and even though he’s shaking, I feel the heavy thud of his rapid heartbeat. His fists are clenched in front of his chest. I grab them, pleading in my mind for him to snap out of it.
As Dylan’s labored breaths fall against my cheek, I know with certainty that I cannot lose another friend. I’ve got to figure something out, and I think it means going out for more water.
It’s been at least an hour since I heard Nathan’s men. I have to assume the coast is clear. But just because I can’t hear them, doesn’t mean they can’t hear me.
I crawl out of the hole, carefully, trying to stay as quiet as possible. I’ve got the damp rag in hand. It’s still my best means of carrying water.
When I’m out of the brush, I stand and take inventory of my surroundings. The obvious things: trees, brush, natural debris, a puddle. The important thing: no soldiers.
I scour the ground, though I’m not sure what I’m looking for yet. I spot a piece of wood and kneel beside it. It’s a scrap of tree bark with a subtle curve to it. If I could find one that curves just a little bit more, it could hold water.
I walk farther, now with a better idea what I’m looking for. I push some wood out from under dirt with the toe of my boot. It’s no good.
After about ten minutes, I see a much larger pool of water--larger than I’ve ever seen before. Maybe this is a pond. I stuff the cloth in my pocket and drop to my knees. Now’s as good a time as any for me to drink up.
To say the water tastes good would be a blatant lie, but it quenches my thirst. I hadn’t even realized I was thirsty; I was too busy worrying about Dylan.
After drinking as much as I can before my stomach cramps, I scan the pond’s edges for anything I could use. If he was conscious, I could just bring him here. But that’s out of the question.
I slam my fist on the muddy ground and groan under my breath. Think. I allow my eyes to close for a moment, and I realize the only option I have, an idea disgusting even to me.
I shift my weight so I’m sitting on my heel while I prop my other leg in front of me and untie my boot laces. It won’t hold much, but it’s my best shot. I take a whiff of the boot and even though it doesn’t really smell, I still cringe.
Without another thought, I dunk the boot and fill it then get to my feet and hobble back to Dylan. After a few yards I realize I’ve forgotten to stay vigilant. When I see leaves jostling several yards in front of me, I freeze.
A man’s hand pushes through, and I spin on my bare heel to hide behind a tree. My hands trembling as I clutch the boot, a splash of water bounces off the edge and spills onto the ground, making a slapping sound.
I bite my lip, hoping the sound was lost on the man nearby.
A voice calls out, “It’ll be dark soon. We’ll need a fire.”
Another responds, his voice gruff, “Do it now. Everybody else, keep looking.”
I peek around the tree and see two of them dangerously close to Dylan’s hiding place. One is only a foot away from the fallen tree. My heart begins to race faster and I pray he doesn’t make any noise. I press the back of my head against the tree. No one’s getting any closer to me, thankfully, so I’ll just have to wait them out.
When I look again, the taller one has climbed atop the tree with Dylan inside. He seems to be seeking higher ground. He takes a step to his rig
ht, which I estimate to be very close to Dylan’s feet.
The tall man shifts his weight and the rotten wood gives. His leg falls through, and he yelps in pain, trying to regain his balance, his hands sprawled across the enormous tree. His cohort helps him pull his leg free, and they stumble away from Dylan.
A heavy exhale escapes me, and I slap my hand over my mouth.
“Idiots,” the gruff one says, standing with a hand in his pocket and the other on his gun.
I glance at what little rays of sunlight remain. The nights are still cold, and Dylan and I both are hardly clothed for cold. Especially Dylan, shirtless and alone. He’ll freeze tonight if I don’t get to him.
It sounds like the idiots are making a fire. I hear a flurry of footsteps and wonder where the others are. Maybe they’ve caught up, and if so that’s more potential eyes to spot me. I can’t risk taking another look until it’s dark.
I stand frozen for at least another hour before I’m satisfied it’s dark enough. I peek around and find six men around the fire, which was built in the center of a clearing near Dylan’s tree. Three of them are still eating, the other two are on their backs, presumably sleeping.
There’s a soft hum of voices from the ones eating, but I can’t make anything out. I crouch for a moment to watch them. I need to stay low, blend with the darkness.
The older one tips a can upside down and slurps the last bits of food. He tosses the can my direction flippantly. I take the opportunity to move, timing my footsteps with the rustling of his trash, then pause again. This will take an eternity.
The gruff one, who I realize is in charge, unzips the sleeping bag he’d been laying on and crawls inside.
The big guy follows suit but makes quite a bit more noise; he’s clumsy. I move again. I stop again.
Still crouching, my legs are on fire. I stay like this for another long while, but I can’t do it much longer. The next time there’s a noise, I sit down. I’ll just wait until they’re all asleep. I hope they all sleep tonight.
