Dhuuxo strode soundlessly across the dead grass between us. In her hand was a rose, freshly picked. I hadn’t seen any flowers at all since it had grown cold, let alone a rose—but it was as beautiful as if she’d just bought it from a florist’s shop.
I looked at her, trying to decide. I knew the rose could not have been from anywhere near here. What was harder to tell was whether she knew it or not.
“When I first came to America, they always had a bouquet of these on the counter at the refugee center. I used to steal them and rub the petals between my fingers until they disintegrated,” Dhuuxo confided. “I couldn’t help it. They felt so soft. Like this.” Her cheeks wrinkled above the line of her scarf as she smiled beneath it. She stroked one of the petals on the rose’s outermost layer, rolling it softly between the pad of her middle finger and thumb. It looked soothing, almost meditative. Then she handed me what was left of the bloom. “You try,” she said. “I’ll make the fire.”
Dhuuxo was right. I couldn’t stop. I carried the battered corpse of that rose around for the rest of the day, until we were inside the RV, cruising slowly along the bumpy swells in the damaged road, and Dhuuxo caught sight of it again. She laughed so hard it made Intisaar laugh, too. When they’d wiped the tears out of their dark eyes, so deep brown they almost look purple, Dhuuxo pressed another freshly picked bloom into my hands. I realized there was a pile of them next to her in the RV’s little travel sink. I looked at Intisaar, who looked away from me, as if to say, Leave it. I don’t know if she found them, or . . . Did Ursula? I want to ask her, Ory—but I don’t know how, when.
“Max, come up here a moment,” Ursula called to me then. I scrambled gratefully to the front seat. “How much farther?” she asked when I dropped down beside her.
I had been keeping track on the map. “We’ve traveled maybe a fourth of the way,” I replied.
“That’s more than I hoped for,” she said automatically, as if she hadn’t even heard the answer. She drew in a long, quiet breath. Ahead, we were coming upon a wide, open field on either side of the road. The grass had grown waist-high at least, and a few leaning weeds brushed the aluminum sides of our vehicle in a soft, hissing hum. Ursula turned to look at me as the RV began to slow. “I’m injured,” she said softly. I forgot the roses. “Don’t tell the others.”
We pulled over so the right two wheels were in the grass and the left two wheels were still barely on the road. “Bathroom break,” I announced casually to the rest of the group sitting behind us. The twins and Ysabelle were already helping Victor, Wes, Lucius, and Zachary up, guiding them in a line toward the door like mothers with children. Even though being together helps us resist the pull, the four men seem to be doing worse and worse, faster and faster. We women are forgetting things too, but not like them. I don’t know if it’s the same way outside our group, but it seems that men forget faster without their shadows. I don’t know why.
I followed Ursula out of the RV and around the other side of it. We waded through the grass carefully, the tips of each blade flicking against our hands. The field was turning golden, and when the wind came, the grass rippled like an ocean, the shimmering, flaxen tide rolling in and out. I was starting to panic, Ory. Had she been wounded before I met them? Why hadn’t she said something? Why hadn’t she gotten help long before this? Did we have a first-aid kit in the RV? I patted my clothes as we walked, trying to figure out what might make the best tourniquet. When we were far enough away that Ursula could see the others but that they couldn’t hear us, she turned to me and held out her hand. It was definitely blood—on the tips of her fingers was a dark, thick smear of red, as if she’d dipped them into it.
I stared, terrified. Who else would lead us if Ursula was dying? I struggled to pull off my jacket with numb, panic-clumsy hands. “Where’s the wound?” I heard myself stammer.
“Here,” she said, and pointed to the source. “There’s no pain, but I felt the blood an hour ago.”
I looked at where her hands were. She was touching the space where the insides of her thighs met. A small, deep crimson stain had started to seep through the fabric of her jeans there.
I didn’t feel embarrassment or pity. I felt only relief—a release so overwhelming I sank slowly down into the grass and let the earth hold me up instead of my legs. “It’s okay,” I finally managed. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not fatal?” she asked.
“No.”
She sat down beside me. “I’ve forgotten something,” she said softly.
“Yes,” I said. “But it’s not important.” I didn’t know, Ory. Was it important? Had Ursula ever had any children? Had she wanted them? Had she already forgotten their names?