Miles gets me. I mean, he didn’t at first. But he knows what I’ve gone through in the last few weeks. He was there. And he finally understands—as well as he can—what I come from.
He knows I need to be left alone right now. And I love him for that.
I noticed some spinach-like greens growing nearby, and picked some to go with our meal. Once enough fat has dripped off the rabbits into the pan, I add the greens and stir until they have wilted. All the while I am thinking. Hashing over what Whit told me in my mind. Picking it apart. Trying to sort what I know to be truth from what I suspect to be lies. Weighing everyone’s motivation: my mother and father’s, Whit’s, the other elders’.
When the rabbits are done, I come out of my daze and see Miles sitting across the fire from me. He gives me a sympathetic smile. “I found the perfect spot for dinner,” he says. “If you’d like to take the rabbits, I’ll take”—he looks down at the pan—“whatever that is, and we’re on our way.”
I wrap one of the rabbits in cloth—it will be our meal tomorrow—and taking the other, follow Miles to the top of the hill and out onto a rocky outcropping. One of our blankets is spread on the ground, with camping plates, knives, and forks laid out on it beside paper napkins. In the center is a small mountain of wildflowers, arranged in an impromptu bouquet. “When did you do all this?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise at this un-Miles-like gesture.
“You were off in la-la land for a good half hour. I was just trying to be useful.” Miles plays it off like it’s nothing, but I reach over and take his hand, and we sit for a minute looking at the vista that he planned for us: an unimpeded view of the hunting reserve. Spaced at even intervals, the fence’s red lights flash slowly . . . eerily . . . like ghoulish beacons declaring humankind’s dominion over nature.
But then I look up and see the night sky practically spilling over with twinkling stars, backlit by the glowing haze of the Milky Way, and humanity’s feeble attempt at supremacy seems laughable. All this will end, I think, looking back down at Avery’s electrified barrier, but nature will go on forever.
We eat in silence, and afterward lie back on the blanket, watching the celestial display as if it were entertainment for our pleasure alone. I reach over and feel for Miles, and he grasps my hand in his.
“Tell me about your dream,” I say, and even though we’ve been quiet for so long, it feels like we’ve been communicating the whole time. Like my out-of-the-blue request was a continuation of a conversation we were already having.
“Which one?” Miles asks, turning his head to look at me.
“The one from your death-sleep,” I respond. “I wanted to ask you before, but thought you might need time.”
“I had a few dreams in the death-sleep,” he says, and a haunted look drifts across his features.
I hesitate. “You don’t have to . . .”
“No,” Miles says, turning his head back to the stars. “I want to tell you.”
“You probably had dreams on your way down the Path and on your way back. But the most important one . . . the defining one . . . is what you see when you reach death, touch it, and turn to come back.”
Miles knows which one I’m talking about. He nods, and then closes his eyes. “It’s a dream I’ve had before. It’s one that’s based in reality, but happened differently in the dream.”
He sighs and squeezes my hand more firmly, like he’s using it for support. “I told you my mom was depressed. That she left us last year and is living with her sister in New Jersey. Well, she did that after a suicide attempt—tried to kill herself with an overdose of sleeping pills. It was Mrs. Kirby, our house cleaner, who found her and called nine-one-one. I was at school. I didn’t see it happen. But in my dreams, I’m the one who finds Mom. And it’s so clear, so detailed—the way she lies curled up on the floor by her bed, the fact that she’s been sick . . . vomited, the chattering of her teeth being the only indication she’s alive—that when I awake, I can’t believe it didn’t really happen that way. That I wasn’t really there.”
“Miles,” I whisper. I can feel the horror of the scene through the tremor in his voice, and my heart aches for him.
He squeezes my hand and goes on. “Each time I dreamed it, there was an invisible wall that kept me from going to her. But this time—in the death-sleep dream—the wall wasn’t solid. I could feel it, like curtains brushing past me, as I walked through it. I was able to go right over to her, pick her up, and sit down on the bed, cradling her in my arms.