by Tahereh Mafi
But I’ve never heard spiders before.
And these things are loud. It’s a lot of discordant noise, a lot of humming, vibrating nonsense I can’t separate into sounds. But then, slowly, they begin to separate. Find forms.
I realize they’re voices.
“You’re right that it’s unusual,” someone says. “It’s definitely strange that he’d be experiencing any lingering effects this long afterward—but it’s not unheard of.”
“That theory makes no sense—”
“Nazeera.” That sounds like Haider. “These are their healers. I’m sure they would know what—”
“I don’t care,” she says sharply. “I happen to disagree. Kenji’s been fine these last couple of days, and I would know; I was with him. This is an absurd diagnosis. It’s irresponsible to suggest that he’s being affected by drugs that were administered days ago, when the underlying cause is unequivocally something else.”
There’s a long stretch of silence.
Finally, I hear someone sigh.
“You may find this hard to believe, but what we do isn’t magic. We deal in actual science. We can, within certain parameters, heal an ill or injured person. We can regrow tissue and bone and replenish blood loss, but we can’t do much for . . . food poisoning, for example. Or a hangover. Or chronic exhaustion. There are still many ills and illnesses we can’t yet cure.” That must be Sara. Or Sonya. Or both. I can’t always tell their voices apart.
“And right now,” one of them says, “despite our best efforts, Kenji still has these drugs in his system. They have to run their course.”
“But— There has to be something—”
“Kenji’s been running on pure adrenaline these last thirty-six hours,” one of the twins says. “The highs and lows are devastating his body, and sleep deprivation is making him more susceptible to the effects of the drugs.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Nazeera asks.
“Not if he doesn’t sleep.”
“What does that mean?” J. Jella. Jello. That’s her voice. She sounds terrified. “How serious is the damage? How long could it take for him to recover?”
And then, as my mind continues to sharpen, I realize that the twins are talking in tandem, completing each other’s thoughts and sentences so it seems like only one person is speaking. That makes more sense.
Sara: “We can’t know for certain.”
Sonya: “It might be hours, it might be days.”
“Days?” Nazeera again.
Sara: “Or not. It really just depends on the strength of his immune system. He’s young and otherwise very healthy, so he has the best chance of bouncing back. But he’s severely dehydrated.”
Sonya: “And he needs sleep. Not drug-induced unconsciousness, but real, restorative sleep. The best we can do is to manage his pain and leave him alone.”
“Why did you do this to him?” Castle. Castle is here. But his voice is harsh. A little scared. “Was it necessary? Truly?”
Silence.
“Nazeera.” It’s Stephan.
“It felt necessary,” Nazeera says quietly. “At the time.”
“You could’ve just told him, you know.” J again. She sounds pissed. “You didn’t have to drug him. He would’ve been fine on the plane if you’d just told him what was going to happen.”
“You weren’t there, Ella. You don’t know. I couldn’t risk it. If Anderson had any idea Kenji was on that plane—if Kenji made a single sound—we’d all be dead right now. I couldn’t trust that he would remain inhumanly still and silent for eight hours, okay? It was the only way.”
“But if you really knew him,” J says, her anger changing, growing desperate. “If you had any idea what it was like to fight with Kenji by your side, you’d never have thought of him as a liability.”
I almost smile.
J always comes through. Always on the team.
“Kenji,” she’s still saying, “wouldn’t have done anything to compromise the mission. He’d have been an asset to you. He could’ve helped you more than you realize. He—”
Someone clears their throat loudly, and I’m disappointed. I was really enjoying that speech.
“I don’t think—” It’s one of the twins again. Sara. “I don’t think it’s helpful to place blame. Not now. And especially not in this instance.”
“Actually,” Sonya says, and sighs, “we think it was the news about James that pushed him over the edge.”
“What?” Nazeera again. “What do you mean?”
Sara: “Kenji loves James. More than most people know. Not everyone realizes how close they are—
“—but we used to see it every day,” Sonya says. “Sara and I have been working with James for a while, teaching him how to use his healing powers.”
Sonya: “Kenji was always there. He was always checking in. He and James have a special bond.”
“And when you’re that worried,” Sara says, “when you’re that scared, extreme levels of stress can badly injure our immune systems.”
Huh. I guess that means my immune system is screwed for life.
Even so, I think I’m feeling better. I’m not only able to distinguish the sounds of their voices, but I’m now realizing that there’s a needle in my arm, and it hurts like a bitch.
They must be giving me fluids.
I can’t really keep my eyes open yet, but I can try to force myself to speak. Unfortunately, my throat is dry. Rough. Sandpaper rough. It feels like way too much work to form complete sentences, but after a minute I manage to croak out two words:
“I’m fine.”
“Kenji.” I feel Castle rush forward, take my hand. “Thank goodness. We were so worried.”
“Okay,” I say, but my voice sounds foreign, even to myself. “Like spiders.”
The room goes quiet.
“What’s he talking about?” someone whispers.
“I think we should let him rest.”
Yes. Rest.
So tired.
Can’t move anymore. Can’t form any more words. I feel like I’m sinking into the mattress.
The voices dissolve, slowly expanding into a mass of unbroken sound that builds into a roaring, painful assault on my ears and then—
Gone.
Quiet.
Darkness.
Nine
How long has it been?
The air feels cooler, heavier. I try to swallow and, this time, it doesn’t hurt. I manage to peek through two slits—remembering something about spiders—and discover that I’m all alone.
I open my eyes a bit more.
I thought I’d wake up in a medical tent or something, but I’m surprised—and relieved, I think—to find that I’m in my own room. All is still. Hushed. Except for one thing: when I listen closely, I can make out the distant, unexpected sound of crickets. I don’t think I’ve heard a cricket in a decade.
Weird.
Anyway, I feel a thousand times better now than I did . . . was it yesterday? I don’t know. However long it’s been, I can honestly say I’m feeling better now, more like myself. And I know that to be true because I’m suddenly starving. I can’t believe I didn’t eat that cake when I had the chance. I must’ve been out of my mind.
I push myself up, onto my elbows.
It’s more than a little disorienting to wake up where you didn’t fall asleep, but after a few minutes, the room begins to feel familiar. Most of my curtains were pulled closed, but moonlight spills through an inch of uncovered window, casting silvers and shadows across the room. I didn’t spend enough time in this tent before things went to hell for me, so the interior is still bare and generic. It doesn’t help, of course, that I have none of my things. Everything feels cold. Foreign. All of my belongings are borrowed, even my toothbrush. But when I look out around the room, at the dead monitor stationed near my bed, at the empty IV bag hanging nearby, and at the fresh bandage taped across the new bruise on my forearm, I realize someone must’ve decided I was okay. That I was
going to be okay.
Relief floods through me.
But what do I do about food?
Depending on what time it is, it might be too late to eat; I doubt the dining tent is open at all hours of the night. But right away, my stomach rebels against the thought. It doesn’t growl, though, it just hurts. The feeling is familiar, easy to recognize. The sharp, breathtaking pangs of hunger are always the same.
I’ve known them nearly all my life.
The pain returns again, suddenly, with an insistence I can’t ignore, and I realize I have no choice but to scavenge for something. Anything. Even a piece of dry bread. I don’t remember the last time I ate a proper meal, now that I think of it. It might’ve been on the plane, right before we crashed. I wanted to eat dinner that first night, when we arrived at the Sanctuary, but my nerves were so shot that my stomach basically shriveled up and died. I guess I’ve been starving ever since.
I’m going to fix that.
I push myself all the way up. I need to recalibrate. I’ve been letting myself lose perspective lately, and I can’t afford to do that. There’s too much to do. There are too many people depending on me.
James needs me to be better than this.
Besides, I have so much to be grateful for. I know I do. Sometimes I just need to be reminded. So I take a deep, steadying breath in this dark, quiet room and force myself to focus. To remember.
To say, out loud: I’m grateful.
For the clothes on my back and the safety of this room. For my friends, my makeshift family, and for what remains of my health and sanity.
I drop my head in my hands and say it. Plant my feet on the floor and say it. And when I’ve finally managed to pull myself up, breathing hard, breaking a sweat, I brace my hands against the wall and whisper:
“I’m grateful.”
I’m going to find James. I’m going to find him and Adam and everyone else. I’m going to make this right. I have to, even if I have to die trying.
I lift my head and step away from the wall, carefully testing my weight on the cold floor. When I realize I feel strong enough to stand on my own, I breathe a sigh of relief. First things first: I need to take a shower.
I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it up, over my head, but just as the collar catches around my face, temporarily blinding me—my arm connects with something.
Someone.
A short, startled gasp is my only confirmation that there’s an intruder in my room.
Fear and anger rush through me at the same time, the sensations so overwhelming they leave me suddenly light-headed.
No time for that, though.
I yank the shirt free of my body and toss it to the floor as I spin around, adrenaline rising. I grab the semiautomatic hidden in my pant leg, strapped to the inside of my calf, and pull on my boots faster than I thought humanly possible. Once I’ve got a firm grip on the gun, my arms fly up, sharp and straight, steadier than I feel inside.
It’s just dark enough in here. Too many places to hide.
“Show yourself,” I shout. “Now.”
I don’t know exactly what happens next. I can’t quite see it, but I can feel it. Wind, curving toward me in a single, fluid arc, and my gun is somehow, impossibly, on the floor. Across the room. I stare at my open, empty hands. Stunned.
I have only a single moment to make a decision.
I pick up a nearby desk chair and slam it, hard, against the wall. One of the wooden legs breaks off easily, and I hold it up, like a bat.
“What do you want?” I say, my hand flexing around the makeshift weapon. “Who sent y—”
I’m kicked from behind.
A heavy, flat boot lands hard between my shoulder blades, knocking me forward with enough force that I lose my balance and my breath. I land on all fours, my head spinning. I’m still too weak. Not nearly fast enough. And I know it.
But when I hear the door swing open, I’m forced upright by something stronger than me—something like loyalty, responsibility for the people I love and need to protect. A slant of moonlight through the open door reveals my gun, still lying on the floor, and I grab it with seconds to spare, somehow getting to the door before it’s had a chance to close.
And when I see a glimmer of something in the darkness, I don’t hesitate.
I shoot.
I know I’ve missed when I hear the dull, distant sound of boots, connecting with the ground. My assailant is on the run and moving too fast to have been injured. It’s still too dark to see much more than my own feet—the lanterns are out, and the moon is slim—but the quiet is just perfect enough for me to be able to discern careful footfalls in the distance. The closer I get, the more I’m able to track his movements, but the truth is, it’s getting harder to hear anything over the sound of my own labored breathing. I have no idea how I’m moving right now. No time to even stop and think about it. My mind is empty save one, single thought:
Apprehend the intruder.
I’m almost afraid to consider who it might be. There’s a very small possibility that this was an accidental intrusion, that maybe it’s a civilian who somehow wandered into our camp. But according to what Nouria and Sam said about this place, that sort of thing should be near impossible.
No, it seems a lot more likely that, whoever this is, it’s one of Anderson’s men. It has to be. He was probably sent here to round up the rest of the supreme kids—maybe going tent to tent in the dead of the night to see who’s inside. I’m sure they didn’t expect me to be awake.
A sudden, terrifying thought shudders through me, nearly making me stumble. What if they’ve already gotten to J?
I won’t let that happen.
I have no idea how anyone—even one of Anderson’s men—was able to penetrate the Sanctuary, but if that’s where we are, then this is a matter of life and death. I have no idea what happened while I was half-dead in my room, but things must’ve escalated in my absence. I need to catch this piece of shit, or all our lives could be at risk. And if Anderson gets what he wants tonight, he’ll have no reason to keep James and Adam alive anymore. If they’re even still alive.
I have to do this. It doesn’t matter how weak I feel. I have no choice, not really.
I steel myself, pushing harder, my legs and lungs burning from the effort. Whoever this is, they’re perfectly trained. It’s hard to admit my own shortcomings, but I can’t deny that the only reason I’ve made it this far is because of the hour—it’s so eerily quiet right now that even delicate noises feel loud. And this guy, whoever he is, knows how to run fast, and seemingly forever, without making much sound. If we were anywhere else, at any other time, I’m not sure I’d be able to track him.
But I’ve got rage and indignation on my side.
When we enter a thick, suffocating stretch of forest, I decide I really, really hate this guy. The moonlight doesn’t quite penetrate here, which will make it nearly impossible to spot him, even if I get close enough. But I know I’m gaining on him when our breaths seem to sync up, our footfalls finding a rhythm. He must sense this, too, because I feel him power through, picking up speed with an agility that leaves me in awe. I’m giving this all I’ve got, but apparently this guy was just having fun. Going for a stroll.
Jesus.
I’ve got no choice but to play dirty.
I’m not good enough to shoot, while running, at a moving target I can’t see—I’m not Warner, for God’s sake—so my childish backup plan will have to suffice.
I chuck the gun. Hard. Give it everything I’ve got.
It’s a clean throw, solid. All I need is a stumble. A single, infinitesimal moment of hesitation. Anything to give me an edge.
And when I hear it—a brief, surprised intake of air—
I launch myself forward with a cry, and tackle him to the ground.
Ten
“What . . . the hell?”
I must be hallucinating. I better be hallucinating.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh my God, I’m so sorry—�
�
I try to push myself up, but I threw myself forward with everything I had, and I nearly knocked myself out in the process. I’ve barely got enough strength left to stand. Still, I manage to shift myself a little to the side and, when I feel the damp grass against my skin, I remember that I’m not wearing a shirt.
I swear loudly.
This night could not possibly get worse.
But then, in the space of half a second, my mind catches up to my body and the force of understanding—of realization—is so intense that it nearly blinds me. Anger, hot and wild, surges through me, and it’s enough to propel me up and away from her. I stumble backward, onto the ground, and hit my head against a tree trunk.
“Son of a—” I cut myself off with an angry cry.
Nazeera scrambles backward.
She’s still planted on the ground, her eyes wild, her hair loose, coming free of its tie. I’ve never seen her look so terrified. I’ve never seen her look so paralyzed. And something about the pained look in her eyes takes the edge off my anger.
Just the edge.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I cry. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she says, and drops her face in her hands.
“You’re sorry?” I’m still shouting. “You’re sorry? I could’ve killed you.”
And even then, even in this horrible, unbelievable moment, she has the audacity to look me in the eye and say: “I doubt that.”
I swear to God, my eyes go so wide with rage I think they split my face open. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with this woman.
No fucking clue.
“I—I don’t even—” I flounder, fighting for the right words. “There are so many reasons why you should be, like, shipped off on a one-way ticket to the moon right now, I don’t even know where to start.” I run my hands through my hair, grabbing fistfuls. “What were you thinking? Why—why—” And then, suddenly, something occurs to me. A cold, sick feeling gathers in my chest and I drop my hands. Look at her.
“Nazeera,” I say quietly. “Why were you in my room?”
She pulls her knees to her chest. Closes her eyes. And only when I can no longer see her face—when she presses her forehead to her knees—does she say: “I honestly think this might be the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.”
