“Ahmadi,” he said gently. “Don’t. We owe it to Watson.”
“I know,” she replied. “I’m just saying, we’ve only got a handful of shells left. Malik will never order it.”
“I’ll do it, then.”
Naz looked at him, surprised—not really believing he was going to actually be able to do it. She wasn’t even sure she’d be able to do it, to look at Watson’s big ebony eye and make it go dull—and she figured she’d already killed at least twenty more human beings than Ory ever would.
Ory either didn’t realize how hard it was going to be, or was pretending not to. “Take Malik and Vienna around the other side of the carriages when she’s ready,” he said.
Naz helped lead Vienna away as she cried. She didn’t tell her or Malik that Ory had gone to get a gun from one of the soldiers. “What are we going to do?” Vienna whimpered. “We can’t just leave her there like that. We can’t just leave her, without . . .”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Malik said helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
Naz put her hand on his shoulder as he bent to kiss Vienna’s forehead. Through the gap between the two carriages that blocked their view, she could see Watson’s long, velvet neck as it trembled against the dirt. Unexpectedly, Ory was there, grimacing. He held the gun as if it was ten times heavier than it was. The electric, stormy gleam shivered inside the barrel. He seemed to have forgotten how to use it.
“Come on,” Naz said softly. “Do it for Watson. Do it for Vienna.” The gun wavered as Ory wavered. He moved the cold muzzle around on the horse’s temple for what felt like hours as she lay there in the dirt, whining. He was afraid it wasn’t on the exact right spot, afraid he’d only miss or make it worse, torturing her with burning, searing thunder, and then need to use more and more bullets until he used too many and someone stopped him, and the horse would be in more agony, not less. Watson moaned. “Do it for us,” Naz whispered. Do it for me, she realized she’d actually meant. Ory closed his eyes and turned his head away.
He was going to miss, she saw. And he was too afraid to take a second shot, so he couldn’t take the first. He wasn’t going to do it. Shoot the horse or come to New Orleans. He was going to run. He was going to go back to Washington, D.C., to go backward into his memories until he died.
But when he finally pulled the trigger, one bullet was enough.
“I’m staying,” he said to Naz when she came out from behind the carriage.
“I believe you now,” she said.
I’M SORRY I HAVEN’T—I KNOW IT’S BEEN A FEW DAYS. WE ALL lost so much the last time, I just didn’t want to record for a little while. I didn’t want to think about it. It’s so hard to explain to you what it’s like. How sometimes you don’t know you’ve lost a thing, but sometimes you do—just not what it was. When that happens, it’s easier just not to think at all. If you don’t think, you won’t stumble onto the fresh, cold chasm in the winding canyon of your memories. For just a little while, it’s easier not to try to remember anything at all.
But then of course I miss you. And then I want to remember you. Even if it means encountering the gaps.
I hope we make it, Ory. We have to make it before I forget you so they can fix me, so I can find you once more. So I can make all of this right again, and save us both.
But it’s getting worse. Much, much worse.
The roads here are winding instead of straight. They swerve lazily all around, as if a giant bent over and gently stirred the landscape with a spoon. There’s an argument inside the RV every time we come to another turn, about whether we should attempt to drive through the swath of non-road in front of us or whether we should follow the curves around to save the tires, even though the hours and the miles are growing, growing, growing.
“We could just drive right over it,” Dhuuxo said softly from over the top of Ursula’s seat. Before us spread a large and dark puddle, too deep and too wide to plunge through without killing the engine. “Just right over, like gliding.”
“No we can’t,” Ursula said firmly. “We can’t drive over water.”
“But we could,” she insisted. I looked up and saw that faraway look in her eyes. A feathering around the edges. A seeing of a thing that none of the rest of us could see just yet, but soon would.
“Stop,” I said.
“We could,” she whispered.
“We’re never going to make it in time if we don’t do something,” Wes added softly.