To the east are the mountains we crossed, whitecapped and foreboding, and I wonder how Tarver ever convinced me to go into them. Maybe it was just that I was too naive to realize how hard the passage would be.
The camp below looks like a doll’s play set. I can’t see the dirty bandages, the ration bar wrappers. The river and its ribbon of trees lead away from the mountains and into the distance. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I can almost make out what seems to be an ocean, or some kind of salt flat, just visible at the horizon. In the other direction, the hills roll on like waves, growing smaller and gentler until they level out at the edge of a vast forest. It’s like a painting, something out of a dusty museum. I’ve never seen so much open space in my life—for a moment I’m dizzy, lost in the tableau, struggling for breath in air that’s suddenly too rich. A hand at the small of my back grounds me again and I grip the metal of the useless communications array more tightly. I turn and see Tarver, pale but smiling.
“The breeze is stiffer up here; are you cold?”
“What would you do if I said yes?” I grin back at him. “Offer me some of your fever?”
“Sharing is caring.” He steps in close, and my chest tightens convulsively. But he’s just reaching to grab on to the metal as well, steadying himself in the wind.
He doesn’t look good. Despite his smile, his nonchalance, he’s gripping the beam too tightly, leaning into it.
I kneel by the pack, pulling out his notebook. “Do you know how to draw maps?”
“Of course I do,” Tarver replies. He’s watching me, and then after a moment he moves to join me. I try not to show my relief when he sits down, some of the lines of pain around his eyes easing. I wish he’d let me climb by myself. But since he woke up, he’s been reluctant for me to stray too far from him. Perhaps he’s afraid I’ll go back into the tomb of a ship despite my promise not to.
Maybe he just likes my company. I give myself a shake, trying to dismiss the thought before I can start blushing again.
He takes the notebook from me, flipping through. Belatedly I remember that I pressed the replicated flower between two of its pages to preserve it and keep it safe; I still haven’t told him about it. But he flips right past it, unseeing, until he pauses on the pages I used while he was sick.
“Did you draw these?” His voice is unreadable as he looks over the maps I made of the twisted and broken decks.
“After the first day I started forgetting where I’d already been.” I keep my eyes on the horizon, easing down onto my heels. “In the dark it all blurs together.”
I realize he’s turned back to the last page he wrote on before my maps begin—a page containing only fragments of a poem in progress. Scattered words and phrases describing one of the purple flowers we found together, something beautiful in a sea of loneliness.
When he was ill I tried to imagine he was writing about me. Now, by the light of day, it seems ludicrous. But he’s staring at it. He knows I saw it. Reading everything would’ve felt too much like accepting he was about to die, going through his things, but I can feel him wanting to ask me if I did. If I violated that privacy while he couldn’t stop me.
I had been expecting field reports, notes on wildlife, but every page was filled with poems.
He’s silent, and I swallow, fiddling with the tear in my jeans, widening it as I pull at each thread. Unlike our usual silences, this one begs to be filled.
I crack first. “My drawing lessons were always more focused on flowers and lakeside vistas, but my maps served their purpose.”
Tarver grunts and turns to a fresh page. The tip of the pencil hovers over the empty white space. His eyes are far away, staring through the page. The wreck beneath us gives a particularly wrenching shriek, and he blinks, and the moment’s gone. He turns his attention to the horizon and begins sketching out the visible landmarks, expert and quick. I wonder where we’ll go—if he’ll suggest the forest, the hills, the river. I wonder if we’ll ever go to the sea.
His eyes flick up and down from scenery to page—mine stay on him. If he notices my gaze he says nothing, concentrating on his task, letting me watch his profile uninterrupted.
He’s still too pale, but he looks less likely to keel over. He’s so thin it makes me ache, but I liberated some dried pasta and flour and shortening from the kitchens, all the things we can’t find from the land. We’ll eat better. He’ll get stronger.
He sucks at the edge of his lip as he concentrates. The dimple there is hypnotic, fascinating me. I’m so focused on that tiny detail of him that I don’t notice when he stops drawing, staring intently at something.
“Lilac.”
I start guiltily, swimming up out of my trance. “I wasn’t!”
“There’s something—come look.” His voice shakes—his gaze is fixed straight ahead.