“Ahmadi, rest,” Vienna said. “It’s one day. The General won’t care.”
“I care,” Naz replied. They were just a few days from New Orleans, but it didn’t matter. If she started slacking off now, who knew what could happen. When they made it, they had to be even more ready for anything. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said as she turned to make her way around the carriages. “Don’t let them put the fire out before I return. I want to soak it up one more time.”
It felt immediately colder as she trudged off in the dark. Or maybe it was just her. She made her way to where Zhang was set up tonight in one of the carriages—he was the only one who didn’t sleep in the grass, in order to keep his injured hands clean. The back door was cracked, and there was a small flicker of light inside from a flashlight. Naz thought he’d seen her, but Zhang had been facing away as she approached. She was about to say his name, but the word died on her lips when she saw what was happening.
Zhang had unwrapped his bandages to bare his injured hand, and was holding it out in front of him. She could see his thumb and the first three fingers, and then the flat spot where his little finger should have been. There was a click, and then Zhang raised the flashlight up and aimed it against his hand so his shadow appeared low on the carriage wall beside him. Naz realized immediately what he was doing. They both held their breath as the dark shape materialized on the wooden surface.
Of course it did, but it was comforting to see—it also had four fingers.
“Well, look at you,” he said to his shadow, amused. “Nice hand.” He wiggled the remaining four digits as best he could without causing pain to the mutilated fifth knuckle. They were both smiling—Zhang at his shadow, Naz at Zhang—but then his face slowly grew more serious. He put his hand down and tipped the flashlight so it rested lazily against his chest. A vague dark shape in his same form trailed off into the corners of the carriage. He watched it shift as he breathed. “I haven’t been very good to you, have I?” he asked his shadow quietly. “Starving you, taking you to war, cutting your fingers off. And you stay.”
Naz took a silent step back, just to be sure he wouldn’t see her crouching in the darkness outside and be angry.
“I’m sorry I sometimes wished it had been you instead of Max’s shadow.” He looked down at the flashlight. “I understand if you’d want to leave me now, after all this. But please just let me make it to the city first. Please let me make sure the books are safe. That everyone gets there. After that, I won’t be angry if you leave. I’ll understand. But if you still want to stay, there can be a future in New Orleans. There can be more memories. I’ve started to make them already. I can—I’ll make even more, if you want.” He stared at it. “If you’re in, I’m in.”
She didn’t remember leaving, but Naz found herself standing by the army’s dimming campfire again, watching her own shadow flicker weakly against the embers. Still there.
Who knew why any of them stayed or any of them left? Did hers like this new, reluctant hope she’d made for it, too? she wondered. Because she had made something, Naz realized as she thought of Zhang—even though she’d tried so hard to do the exact opposite.
Orlando Zhang
THE DAY THEY REACHED NEW ORLEANS, ZHANG HAD BEEN awake since before dawn, watching the navy sky. He’d been watching it since before sundown really, too tense to rest. Every moment they weren’t galloping felt like an ambush was about to spring on them.
They were so close. So close. They just had to keep ahead for one more day.
“Can’t sleep either?” Malik asked as he trudged through the grass to the open door of Zhang’s carriage.
“Not all night,” Zhang said. He glanced through the little tufts of chiming iizinger clouds overhead to the sky. “I know it’s still pretty dark, but . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence. It was almost too big of a thing to say. But we’re only a few hours away. He could feel his heart fluttering against his ribs, like a panicked bird in its cage. But we could make it before noon if we left now.
Malik rubbed the stubble on his chin slowly. “Rest is important, and the troops aren’t getting enough of it.”
Zhang nodded. Malik was right. They’d been pulling twenty-hour days for a week at least. Their cavalry had taken to riding in pairs so one soldier could doze in the saddle while the other held her up.
Malik adjusted his grip on the rifle he was carrying. “That being said, you know the saying ‘You can lead a horse to water . . .’?”
“But you can’t make it drink,” Zhang finished.