I stare at her blankly, slowly processing her words. I refuse to agree. I can never agree. I don’t want to be different in that way. I don’t want to be better equipped. “I can’t accept that.”
“You killed—”
“I had to,” I cut in swiftly, hating her a little right then for daring to throw that in my face. She’s supposed to be my friend.
“Precisely.” She nods. “For Sean. That’s my point. Someone else maybe couldn’t have even done that. But you’re a carrier. . . .” Her voice trails off, her eyes gleaming at me suggestively. Encouragingly. Like a mother urging her baby to take its first step. C’mon. You can do it . . . you can get there. Keep trying.
I twist my shoulder in a semblance of a shrug.
She blows out a heavy breath. “You should be glad you’re the way you are. Or Sean would be dead.”
My lips part, impossible words hanging there, unformed, strangling way back in my throat.
“Think about it,” she adds. “I’m not judging. I can understand it.”
“You can?”
“When I was beating up Addy—”
“You didn’t end her life,” I remind sharply. Big. Difference.
“No, but it was easy. I didn’t blink over hurting her.”
I shake my head. “She brutalized you. She was trying to keep us from escaping.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes glint at me, satisfied that she has made her point.
“Maybe,” I murmur, ready to quit talking about it and stick my head in a hole in true ostrich fashion. I scoot off the bed. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Good night.” Suddenly returning to bed and the room of my haunting isn’t so unappealing. The conversation with her made my head hurt. Even after I make it back to my room and slide into bed beside Sean, I can still hear her words ringing in my ears. You should be glad you’re the way you are.
NEWS RELEASE
For immediate release
Contact: Department of Justice—
Office of the Attorney General
May 19, 2021
US Customs and Border Protection has announced its partnership with the Wainwright Agency in order to more effectively monitor and impede the passage of escaped HTS carriers from US detention facilities into Mexico. Already 180 agents have been dispatched to help with efforts to contain these violent individuals along the border of the United States and Mexico. . . .
FOUR
SEAN CHECKS OUR GEAR FOR THE THIRD TIME.
“C’mon, man, I think we’re good.” Gil shifts anxiously on his feet.
Sean straightens, staring down at our packs like he can see inside them. I know he must have the contents memorized by now. Still, he looks unconvinced. “You think we packed enough food?”
“We can’t fit any more,” I point out.
Sabine picks up a pack, wincing as she swings it over her shoulder. “I can’t carry any more cans in this. I mean, not without tipping over.”
Sean’s lips quirk, his gaze sweeping her diminutive frame. “Yeah. Okay.”
I pause over that smile. It’s been days since Sean smiled. At least at me. Sure, he stares at me a lot. But not the kind of stare that used to make my stomach flutter. His stares are like the worried ones Mom gave me from the moment I was first declared a carrier. Like she didn’t know quite what to say to me. Or how to act around me. That’s Sean now. Unsure of me.
We depart the trailer into dark night. Or morning, I suppose. Three a.m. qualifies as morning. We trek down the mountain, careful with our steps, Sean leading the way. This isn’t the time to turn an ankle. Sean scouted the trail several times over the last week and appears to know the best way down. Not that I’m surprised. He’s capable that way. Of the four of us, he’s the most fit. Gil can hack into any system and make a decent sandwich, but Sean can bench-press a Volkswagen. He’s the one who needed the least amount of training at Mount Haven. Gil follows him, then I trail Gil. I can’t hear Sabine behind me. Her steps fall without a whisper. Maybe Mount Haven taught her something. Or it could be that at five feet and a hundred pounds she moves with a natural stealth.
It’s a slow descent. The incline isn’t that steep, but there’s so much brush and scrub that it’s almost an hour before we reach the river. I can hear the rush of water as we approach.
Sean stops and faces us. His eyes glitter in the dark as he slips off his pack and drops it to the ground.
“Wait here,” he instructs. “The boat should be nearby. Let me find it.”
I hold my breath, watching as he disappears, his shadow merging with the night. I hold myself motionless, staring after him. Sabine fidgets nervously, her head swinging left and right. I can almost visualize her darting gaze, like prey scanning for danger. Although I don’t quite consider her prey anymore. Not since I saw her take out Addy.
Not since talking to her last night.
Gil takes turns looking at the two of us and back to the spot where Sean disappeared. He’s on edge as well, and it’s reminder enough that we’re toeing a dangerous line. Everything rides on chance tonight. The chance that we’re not spotted. The chance that we make it across. The chance that the Mexican authorities don’t grab us on the other side. The chance that the people we’re supposed to meet are where they said they would be.
It’s almost impossible to hear someone approaching with the cicadas so loud on the air. I don’t know if that’s a good thing. The din might cover our sounds, but then anything could creep up on us, too. We know the usual times the patrols run, but they could change their schedules. It’s probably protocol for them to do so every now and then. They know we’re out here, escaped carriers watching their patterns, hoping to make it across.
“You killed—”
“I had to,” I cut in swiftly, hating her a little right then for daring to throw that in my face. She’s supposed to be my friend.
“Precisely.” She nods. “For Sean. That’s my point. Someone else maybe couldn’t have even done that. But you’re a carrier. . . .” Her voice trails off, her eyes gleaming at me suggestively. Encouragingly. Like a mother urging her baby to take its first step. C’mon. You can do it . . . you can get there. Keep trying.
I twist my shoulder in a semblance of a shrug.
She blows out a heavy breath. “You should be glad you’re the way you are. Or Sean would be dead.”
My lips part, impossible words hanging there, unformed, strangling way back in my throat.
“Think about it,” she adds. “I’m not judging. I can understand it.”
“You can?”
“When I was beating up Addy—”
“You didn’t end her life,” I remind sharply. Big. Difference.
“No, but it was easy. I didn’t blink over hurting her.”
I shake my head. “She brutalized you. She was trying to keep us from escaping.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes glint at me, satisfied that she has made her point.
“Maybe,” I murmur, ready to quit talking about it and stick my head in a hole in true ostrich fashion. I scoot off the bed. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Good night.” Suddenly returning to bed and the room of my haunting isn’t so unappealing. The conversation with her made my head hurt. Even after I make it back to my room and slide into bed beside Sean, I can still hear her words ringing in my ears. You should be glad you’re the way you are.
NEWS RELEASE
For immediate release
Contact: Department of Justice—
Office of the Attorney General
May 19, 2021
US Customs and Border Protection has announced its partnership with the Wainwright Agency in order to more effectively monitor and impede the passage of escaped HTS carriers from US detention facilities into Mexico. Already 180 agents have been dispatched to help with efforts to contain these violent individuals along the border of the United States and Mexico. . . .
FOUR
SEAN CHECKS OUR GEAR FOR THE THIRD TIME.
“C’mon, man, I think we’re good.” Gil shifts anxiously on his feet.
Sean straightens, staring down at our packs like he can see inside them. I know he must have the contents memorized by now. Still, he looks unconvinced. “You think we packed enough food?”
“We can’t fit any more,” I point out.
Sabine picks up a pack, wincing as she swings it over her shoulder. “I can’t carry any more cans in this. I mean, not without tipping over.”
Sean’s lips quirk, his gaze sweeping her diminutive frame. “Yeah. Okay.”
I pause over that smile. It’s been days since Sean smiled. At least at me. Sure, he stares at me a lot. But not the kind of stare that used to make my stomach flutter. His stares are like the worried ones Mom gave me from the moment I was first declared a carrier. Like she didn’t know quite what to say to me. Or how to act around me. That’s Sean now. Unsure of me.
We depart the trailer into dark night. Or morning, I suppose. Three a.m. qualifies as morning. We trek down the mountain, careful with our steps, Sean leading the way. This isn’t the time to turn an ankle. Sean scouted the trail several times over the last week and appears to know the best way down. Not that I’m surprised. He’s capable that way. Of the four of us, he’s the most fit. Gil can hack into any system and make a decent sandwich, but Sean can bench-press a Volkswagen. He’s the one who needed the least amount of training at Mount Haven. Gil follows him, then I trail Gil. I can’t hear Sabine behind me. Her steps fall without a whisper. Maybe Mount Haven taught her something. Or it could be that at five feet and a hundred pounds she moves with a natural stealth.
It’s a slow descent. The incline isn’t that steep, but there’s so much brush and scrub that it’s almost an hour before we reach the river. I can hear the rush of water as we approach.
Sean stops and faces us. His eyes glitter in the dark as he slips off his pack and drops it to the ground.
“Wait here,” he instructs. “The boat should be nearby. Let me find it.”
I hold my breath, watching as he disappears, his shadow merging with the night. I hold myself motionless, staring after him. Sabine fidgets nervously, her head swinging left and right. I can almost visualize her darting gaze, like prey scanning for danger. Although I don’t quite consider her prey anymore. Not since I saw her take out Addy.
Not since talking to her last night.
Gil takes turns looking at the two of us and back to the spot where Sean disappeared. He’s on edge as well, and it’s reminder enough that we’re toeing a dangerous line. Everything rides on chance tonight. The chance that we’re not spotted. The chance that we make it across. The chance that the Mexican authorities don’t grab us on the other side. The chance that the people we’re supposed to meet are where they said they would be.
It’s almost impossible to hear someone approaching with the cicadas so loud on the air. I don’t know if that’s a good thing. The din might cover our sounds, but then anything could creep up on us, too. We know the usual times the patrols run, but they could change their schedules. It’s probably protocol for them to do so every now and then. They know we’re out here, escaped carriers watching their patterns, hoping to make it across.
