The Liar's Guide to the Night Sky

by Brianna R. Shrum

  “That didn’t trigger an attack?”

  “Yeah. Got it taken care of before anyone noticed but Tzipporah. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Well,” I say, “shit.”

  A chorus of “Well, shit”s replies to me.

  “I’m fine,” she grumbles, leaning into Tzipporah. “You really want to help me, someone find me some lotion for this ashy skin.” Tzipporah pets her hair lightly and Sam runs her hands over her arms.

  She’s not fine, and I know it. And so does she.

  I hate this.

  “Listen,” says Jonah, “I hate to do the calm down, all you overreactors thing? But we all do need to remain calm. Hopefully a couple days of smoke is enough to signal search parties to our area. And if not, we’re going to figure it out in the morning.”

  Sam’s ragged breathing plays in my head, scratches as it pulses through my veins.

  We’ll figure it out.

  We have until morning.

  Because Sam can breathe.

  Well.

  She can breathe now.

  God, this is a fucking nightmare.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT THIS POINT, I start to think that no one is coming.

  No one is coming because we are all absolutely stupid.

  It was so monumentally stupid coming out here all alone, not telling anyone where we were going, leaving no hint whatsoever as to our whereabouts. Like we’re a bunch of punk kids who’ve never been in the mountains before. You always, always tell someone where you’re going.

  I rub my fist over my burning, tired eyes, and it comes away salty and wet.

  I can’t believe I’m crying. I can’t waste the water. You wouldn’t think that would really be much of an issue when you’re literally surrounded by water, but the problem is that that water is frozen. Consuming enough snow to fill the tank is a good way to get hypothermia and freeze yourself to death from the inside out.

  So no. No, it is, in fact, an issue, and I absolutely shouldn’t be using the energy or the water on crying.

  I sniff, too-thin gloves coming away cold and wet from my nose.

  I don’t even think I’m sad. I’m just so mad. I’m so mad that we did this, that I did this. I’m furious and, unfortunately, I’m an angry crier. So here I am, hot and mad and leaking out of my face.

  There’s nothing more infuriating than this—being a short girl absolutely ripping someone’s ass, and then feeling the heat behind your eyes so you’re trying to be scary, but now congrats—you can’t. You’re too mad.

  You’re sobbing.

  I’m not sobbing; I have it at least that much under control.

  But I am livid, and so I am crying.

  I take several deep breaths, following my own advice to Sam.

  I stand when I think I can face everyone, and my eyes find Lydia, who at this point is just lying there on her side, quietly weeping. Jolie is sitting behind her, petting her hair and whispering shushing sounds to her.

  I say, “That ankle?”

  Lydia nods, eyes squeezed tight against the pain. “Slept on it wrong,” she says. “Got up to pee and . . .” She doesn’t finish it.

  I meet Jolie’s eyes.

  Neither of us says a thing.

  I wonder if she’s thinking about Sam from last night like I am.

  I wonder if she’s thinking about how impossible it would be to take care of our wounded, littlest cousin if something wild came out of that brush and got a little brave, like I am.

  I wonder if she’s thinking: No one’s coming. It’s save ourselves or nobody will.

  Like I am.

  I can’t stop thinking about it, about Sam going the palest, most alarming shade of brown, about the absolute terror in Tzipporah’s eyes, like I’ve never seen before, not on her.

  I can’t stop thinking about the pressure, the urgency, the sudden realization that Sam could die here.

  Not in the abstract, We’re all in a bad situation here! We could die! kind of way. In the real, solid, brush it with your fingers kind of way.

  Sam, who’s loved my beautiful, pain in the ass, incredible cousin Tzipporah for two years, could die up here.

  She could have died last night.

  And who knows what’s happening with Lydia. Is it a break or a sprain or an infection or . . .

  What I know is it’s not getting any better.

  It’s sure as hell not increasing her odds of survival.

  It’s not increasing any of ours.

  I am high on lack of sleep, on absolute fury at this whole situation, on bone-deep fear that I won’t be able to protect the people I care about—not from here.

  It is not rationale speaking for me when I suddenly stand and say, “I’m leaving.”

  There’s a blanket of quiet for several seconds.

  Jonah says, “Come again?”

  I turn to face him, eyes flashing. “I’m leaving. Sam’s sick and Lydia’s hurt and I just think someone needs to.”

  “Needs to what?” he says. He’s relaxing against his log, because of course he is. Looking lazy and challenging which, once again, of course.

  “Find help.”

  “How the hell are you going to find help?” he says. “This is an abandoned mountain, dude. Jaxon and I ran it yesterday and there’s no one. There’s nothing. Just snow and rock and mud and destruction for days.”

  “So WHAT?” I say. “I’m supposed to just sit here? Just sit here and wait for help to come too late?”

  Jonah scoffs. “It’s a dumbass decision and you know it. Every time a couple bodies get picked up outside a crashed car in the wilderness, it’s because they decided to leave their vehicle. Smart people don’t do this.”

  I bristle at that attempted manipulation. Those tears pop up hot and sharp behind my eyes and I blink them back. No. Not now. Absolutely not. Every protest just makes my resolve stronger. I curl my hands into fists at my sides and go for my backpack, leaving out what I think should be left at camp, packing what needs to come with me. “Anyone who wants to come,” I say, “can come with me. I’m trained in paramedics and I’m confident we can work together to do this as . . . as safely as possible.”

  Jonah just snorts and Jaxon peers at me. “Splitting up, Hallie? That just . . . it’s never the way to go,” Jaxon says.

  “It is now,” I say. “Don’t you GET IT? Don’t any of you get it? She could die! Sam could DIE.”

  Tzipporah flinches at the thought, arm curling around Sam protectively.

  Sam tightens her fingers on Tzipporah’s leg but that’s it.

  “Lydia has something really wrong, too. And what if no one finds us before it can be fixed? Hmm? Someone has to get back. You don’t have to be brave; none of you do. No one has to follow me. I can go. I can . . . I can do this on my own if I need to.”

  “Don’t,” says Tzipporah.

  Jolie joins her, and I say, “Someone has to. SOMEONE HAS TO.”

  I can feel the weight and the echo all around me.

  Someone has to.

  I let it hang.

  No one else wants to.

  I look around the circle, suddenly terrified. I don’t actually know if I can do this alone; I was trying to prove a point.

  “We should stay, Hal,” says Sam.

  I clench my teeth. “You stay. All of you, if you want.”

  “Don’t, Hallie. Please. You can’t go on your own out there.”

  “If I don’t,” I say, “who will?”

  I zip up my bag.

  No one tries to, like, physically restrain me or anything.

  They tell me not to do this, ask me not to, almost beg me not to.

  But no one holds me back.

  I don’t know why that stings, but I have to go.

  Maybe it’s because they know I have to.

  And they’re all too chickenshit.

  Well, that’s not fair. Jaxon would never leave Jolie. If she came, so would he. Oliver is young. Sam is sick and Tzipporah should st
ay with her, and Lydia, obviously, should definitely not come along.

  Everyone thinks I’m dumb.

  Or they’re lazy.

  Or they’re . . . I don’t know.

  I don’t know.

  I know this goes against what every expert tells you to do when you’re lost. I know that.

  But every expert didn’t see Sam choking on her own lungs last night.

  Every expert didn’t watch Lydia get worse and worse until she couldn’t freaking move.

  Every expert hasn’t sat here for two days freezing to death on a mountain known for allowing people to disappear in oppressive, lonely silence, knowing deep in their heart that help isn’t coming.

  I am not every expert.

  But I am here.

  And I am doing what needs to be done.

  I give it twenty minutes, to be sure I have what I need. To check and recheck my pack, divvy out first aid supplies, leaving most of them for the people who are already hurt, taking just a couple small items for myself. A little tube of antibiotic cream. Bandages. That kind of thing.

  And then, well. I leave.

  People are done making their moves to convince me, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because I’m the weakest link, the kid from Massachusetts who they never see anyway.

  I choke that down and stomp it out.

  What matters is none of that.

  What matters is surviving.

  For all of us.

  That is the assurance I force to play in my head over and over as I go alone into the quiet woods.

  Snow sprinkles the ground, in piles and sprays and drifts. It smells like wintertime, all pine and frostbitten air, if the winter were utterly lonely and menacing when it came.

  It’s not like I’m paying much attention to the ground, but I don’t see tracks—the only ones here are mine. Everything is sleeping for the winter or so small and scarce that they don’t need to litter the entire ground with tracks, don’t need to compete for space.

  I don’t see any rabbits or foxes or hear a single bird.

  It’s unsettling, the lack of noise that comes so immediately after I leave. The snow blanket mutes everything I should hear, which, in these woods, isn’t much.

  It’s eerie, just listening to the almost-nothing breeze, my own footsteps.

  That’s it.

  That’s all it’s going to be for who knows how long.

  I sink into the cold quiet.

  Five minutes out of camp, I hear a crunching behind me. It’s rhythmic and fast, and the telltale swish of cheap, thick ski gear gives it away.

  I stop where I am.

  I let him catch up.

  “What do you want?” I say.

  I don’t look at him. I just say it to the path ahead of me.

  He says, “I’m not letting you go alone.”

  I say, “You think you could stop me, Jonah?”

  Jonah sighs, and in the quiet, I do look at him.

  He says, “I’m not stopping you.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “She’s hurt. Lydia. And Sam last night. And you’re taking off out here like you’re Wonder Woman or some shit, and I think if anyone tried to stop you now, you’d just sneak off in the middle of the night, wouldn’t you?”

  I shrug.

  Probably.

  “So go. Before I change my mind.”

  I stay rooted in the spot.

  “Goddammit, Jacob,” he says. He stands a little taller, muscle in his cheek twitching. “Go.”

  I take another second with all of it, nerves and fear and dread and comfort settling at once into my stomach. I take in the set of Jonah’s jaw, the dark, furious determination in his eyes that invites no argument. I swallow.

  And I walk off.

  He keeps pace.

  After the silence falls for just a little too long to be comfortable, I say, “I thought you said smart people didn’t do this.”

  He breathes, and for a second, all I hear are his exhales and the crunch of snow beneath our feet.

  Then he says, “Well, I must be really fucking stupid.”

  And we leave them all for the wild.

  CHAPTER NINE

  JONAH NOT-SO-QUIETLY LET ME know I was heading in what was probably the wrong direction, based on what he and Jaxon had found out the day before, and we’d changed course—westward it was.

  I tried to pretend like that didn’t bug me, like it didn’t grate that the first thing I’d done on my own was screw up. But that’s what I get, I guess, for not having a plan. This is what we all get.

  Unlike the entire incident, though, I guess there really was no way to plan for this. For the rescue trip—a trek across the Rockies in the dead of winter wherein the whole mountainside has just been torn apart. That’s what I hate, I think: knowing that I can’t plan. I can’t get a hold of any kind of strategy that isn’t just . . . wandering. Any plan is going to come ten seconds into a disaster, a reaction. I can’t see the potential events or paths in front of me, so how could I possibly choose one?

  I grit my teeth.

  I have to keep going.

  And I hate it.

  That’s what’s making me crazy.

  Jonah glances back at me, over his shoulder, and says, “You doing okay?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  He arches an eyebrow. “You sure? Because you look kind of . . .” He passes his hand over his face in a vague gesture and grimaces.

  “Kind of what?” I say. It comes out like a growl.

  “Just. Grumpy.”

  “Grumpy? Oh Jesus, not grumpy! I’m so sorry, Jonah, what can I do for you to make your stay in the fucking Arctic more comfortable?”

  He rolls his eyes and turns around, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Fine. Quiet Lyft rides are the best ones anyway.”

  I think I actually snort out loud. It’s a little hard to tell through the cold in my nose, but the immediate derision needs somewhere to escape. I scoff again through my mouth to be certain it’s been noted aloud, and then I powerwalk to keep up with him.

  “It’s your legs,” I say.

  He deadpans, “My legs.”

  “I can’t keep up with you on those tree trunks, you absolute giraffe, and I’m tired.”

  “You can’t be tired yet; we’ve got a whole-ass mountain to cover. And I’ll slow down, Christ. I should have volunteered to go in your place.”

  “Oh,” I say, sarcasm seeping into my voice, “how romantic.”

  He barks out a laugh. “Trust me. Not romantic.”

  I narrow my eyes, still struggling just a little to keep up even after he’s allegedly slowed down, and say, “You were about to shove your tongue down my throat before the landslide hit.”

  “Well, circumstances change.”

  When I say “Like?” I expect him to respond with something about the reorganization of the landscape, which will give me the perfect lead-in to explain what I think should be the pretty obvious source of my grumpiness.

  But when I say “Like?” he says, “Like your being really fucking annoying.”

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “You asked.”

  “I’m not being annoying.”

  His eyebrows hit his hairline and he just keeps moving. “Okay.”

  My nose wrinkles. I don’t know why this is even bothering me; he’s being a jerk. We’re setting off on a mission to save our own lives and the lives of our friends and family; this is petty. Of both of us, really.

  But . . . annoying? How am I even being annoying?

  It can’t be the grumpy thing—can it?

  I feel the urge to explain myself, and I hate that I want to explain myself at all. I don’t owe him.

  And yet.

  I find myself opening my mouth and saying, “It’s not just your legs. It’s this whole thing. It’s freezing and I’m scared for everyone, not least of all us, and this was so freaking impulsive which isn’t like me at all, and we don’t even have a map! We have no
working knowledge of the area, Jonah! We have ZERO plan.”

  He stops right there and turns around.

  Her grabs my arms, and I can feel the pinpoints of his fingertips through my coat. My eyes widen and my pulse spikes, and a muscle in his jaw jumps.

  He breathes—in through his nose. Out. Like he’s consciously trying to calm himself down. He says, “Hallie.”

  “What?”

  “We are hiking across a mountain.”

  “Yes.”

  “In the dead of winter.”

  I take a breath. “Mmhmm.”

  He pulls me just an inch closer. “This is an extremely fucking stressful situation.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Do you understand that you losing your goddamn shit is not helping that?”

  I’m shaking. My breath is shaking. “Y-yes.”

  He just stares at me, so hard I cannot look away. His eyes are so dark, so freaking intense. I don’t know how I’ve never noticed how totally tangible it is when he looks at you. Like he’s speaking.

  He says, “So can you please, please just like . . . be quiet? For nine seconds?”

  I don’t know why that strikes me as funny, but it does.

  Something makes me laugh.

  Then I am losing it, right bicep still caught in his grip, just cackling, laughter echoing through the silent trees.

  He doesn’t laugh, but after a few seconds, after I’m literally crying a little bit, his mouth quirks up.

  “You good?” he says.

  “Yeah.” I wipe a couple freezing tears from my eyes. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “Okay.” He drops my arm and backs up a pace.

  “Okay.”

  “Jonah.”

  He breathes again, slowly, intentionally, and glances up at the clear blue sky. “Yes?”

  “We need to make a plan.”

  The longest pause of the century.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  I try to lock eyes with him; I’m certain I could transmit the necessity of what I’m saying to him through osmosis if I could just get him to look at me. He would see reason if he would stare into my eyes.

  I say, “I’m doing this for your own good. Unless you want to die up here. Is that what you want?”