Until the Beginning
Page 14

“Yes,” she says proudly, and hands it to me so that I can admire it. “I started it while we were back in the Mojave. Finished it and strung it once we got here. These doves are its first kills.”
I nod, trying to block out the word “kill” and the image it brings to mind of Juneau as a kind of teenage warrior.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
“It’s awesome,” I say, turning it over to inspect her handiwork: The wood is finely carved and a shard of mirror carefully inset in one side of the bow.
“Good. Because it’s yours. Mine’s in the tent.”
My jaw drops. “You made me a crossbow?” I ask.
She smiles. “Yes. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to hunt for food. But since everyone we’ve come up against so far has been armed, I figure we might as well even the odds. Target practice starts tomorrow.”
I still don’t know what to say. I hate weapons. I really do. But this seems different. Juneau made it herself. For me. I run my fingers across the surface of the wood. It’s perfectly smooth. “It’s beautiful,” I say.
For the first time since I’ve known her, Juneau actually blushes. But before I can point out this historic moment, she grabs something from inside her pack and tosses it to me.
“Got this for you, too. Picked it up at the gas station this morning.” She looks at my chest appreciatively and grins. “Not that I mind you walking around half naked. But I don’t want you to be cold.”
I hold it up: a black Arizona Cardinals T-shirt. “I didn’t know you were a football fan!” I say, grinning, and throw it over my head.
“I’ve never seen a football game,” she admits. “But it was the design with the smallest letters. There were no plain ones. I can’t imagine paying money to wear an advertisement for someone.”
“It’s not that weird, once you’ve gotten used to it,” I say, wondering how long it’ll take Juneau to get used to the modern world . . . if she’ll ever take things like this for granted like I do. And, I have to admit, I sincerely hope she won’t.
I push myself up once again, and this time succeed in standing. I pigeon-march in a circle past the truck, behind the tent, and back to the fire. Then I jump up and down a bit, and it feels so great to be able to move that I run a few laps around the clearing before flopping down next to Juneau.
“I’m back from the grave,” I proclaim. Stretching my arms straight out in front of me, I groan, “It’s alive!”
“And that would be a reference to . . . ,” Juneau asks, amused.
“It’s what Dr. Frankenstein yells when his monster walks,” I say, dropping my arms in disappointment. “Haven’t you ever seen it?”
She hands me one of the spits, and blows on her own, then picks a little piece of meat off with her fingers and pops it in her mouth. “We had the book. Mary Shelley. Read it but haven’t seen it. I’ve never been to a movie.” She frowns at me, like I should have known that.
My hand stops halfway to my mouth. “You . . . have never seen a movie?” I don’t know why this throws me off. I knew she and her clan were off the grid out there in the tundra, but for some reason this strikes me as more extreme than her other deprivations. A life without movies? I can’t imagine it.
“The elders talked about them,” she says. “They would sometimes tell us their stories around the feast fire. My favorite was when Nome’s dad would tell us Star Wars. He knows those films by heart.”
“That would be episodes four, five, and six,” I say. “They did the prequels around fifteen years ago.” Juneau’s eyes light up. I shake my head. “Don’t get too excited. You’re not missing much. The originals are far better.”
I pop a piece of dove into my mouth—Juneau’s cut the head and tail off so it looks like a miniature chicken, which is fine with me—and my stomach rumbles loudly as I chew. It’s been two days since I’ve eaten. “Oh my God, this is so good,” I say.
Juneau smiles. “So you’re a movie expert?” she asks.
“Now that you mention it,” I say, “I should have named that earlier as one of my skills. I’ve put in hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours watching movies. Besides video games, which is my hands-down forte, my film trivia knowledge is excellent, if I do say so myself. Go ahead ask me anything.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Juneau says, and then changes her mind. “Wait. Best line from Star Wars. Not to prove that you’ve seen it. But to convince me of whether or not I should trust your taste.”
“How would you know what the best line from Star Wars is?” I challenge.
“Nome’s dad was constantly quoting them.”
“That question’s too easy,” I counter. “I don’t even have to think about it. There’s one all-time jaw-dropper of a line in those films, and nothing else can top it.”
“Let’s see if we agree. On the count of three, we both say it.” Juneau counts to three, and we both say in our deepest Darth Vader voices, “I am your father.”
“Woo-hoo!” Juneau waves her dove around like a victory flag. “I knew there must be a reason I liked you!” she teases.
I point at her with my spike. “Tell you what. As soon as we save your clan, we’re doing a movie marathon. All six Star Wars films in chronological order.”