But Levi’s expression falls strangely flat, neither worried nor fearful nor angry at my recklessness. “You need to be more careful,” he answers simply, raising his glass to his lips and taking another drink.
I stare down at my glass, at the dark amber liquid, the words I need to say lodged like bricks in my throat. Levi and I have become friends in recent years, a genial friendship that requires little of the other. In the evenings, we often play a slow game of chess on his front porch, rarely finishing a match, and sometimes we sit and drink Agnes’s moonshine well into the night, talking of the coming seasons, of crops to be planted. He’s always seemed relaxed with me in a way that he’s not with the others. And yet, I’ve also known there are things he won’t share, a burden he carries as the leader of our community, a responsibility that is mightier than anyone else could understand. These things, I suspect, he shares only with Bee.
“You don’t agree with my decision about Colette’s baby?” he asks, pinpointing the reason I’ve come. Why I’m really here.
“I wanted to offer—” I catch myself, searching my mind for the right way to explain. “I could go down the road into town. I could bring back a doctor.”
Levi takes another hard swig of the whiskey, eyes closing, savoring the taste. And when his eyes blink open again, they are glassy and unfocused. “It isn’t safe,” he answers, each vowel gone slack from the booze. This is a conversation he doesn’t want to be having right now, but one he also knows is necessary.
“But perhaps if I move quickly,” I say. “I can make it through the trees without—” My voice breaks off. Without getting sick. Without bringing back the thing we fear. “No one has to know,” I amend. “I could go tonight, while everyone sleeps.”
I consider saying aloud the thing I’ve done: admitting that I have already been over the perimeter countless times. That I’ve not gotten sick. That perhaps I am the only one who can do it safely.
But I keep my mouth shut. Because there are other things I would have to explain: the abandoned truck, the photograph I still keep in my pocket.
Levi lowers the glass of whiskey, holding it loosely at his side, and his expression pulls tight. Maybe he sees something in my face—the thing I’m trying to hide. “And when you don’t return, what should I tell the others?” he asks. “What should I tell your wife? Or worse, if you do return, what then?”
I know what he means.
If I leave and come back, they will think I have brought the illness back with me. They will assume I am sick. And they will fear I might infect others.
“You can separate me from the community,” I say. “And watch for symptoms.” I don’t offer the other thing: the way to rid rot from the body. The old way, the cruelest way. “Someone should at least try.”
He exhales through his nostrils and walks across the room to the old fireplace, black, half-burnt logs resting at the bottom, leftovers from the last fire that warmed the house—months ago now. “You would risk your life for that child?” he asks, placing a hand on the mantel.
“Yes.”
He takes another drink and stares down at the dark fireplace, candlelight throwing strange, dancing shapes along the back of his head. “Because I don’t think you’d be doing it for the child,” he says. “You’d be doing it for yourself.” He nods but doesn’t lift his gaze. “You want to know what’s at the end of that road, don’t you? It’s your curiosity that begs you to volunteer your life.”
“No,” I answer, but there is a tightness in my voice, because in truth, it’s a little of both. If Levi gave his permission, I could travel farther down the road than I ever have, and I might find more clues about Travis Wren. I could also go to the nearest town and bring back medicine to save the child. And then, maybe, I’d know for sure if I’m really immune.
Levi raises his eyes, brows sloped together, but his gaze is not angry, it’s edged in worry. “I understand why you might feel this way,” he continues, like he hadn’t heard my response. “Staring out at that road every night, questions stirring inside you. I’ve thought the same things from time to time.” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s the question we all have, the need to know what’s out there.”
A river of tension slips along my jaw. A truck, I want to answer.
“We’re friends, Theo. I want you to be honest with me.” He takes another drink of the whiskey, finishing it. “Have you ever gone past the boundary?” He’s circling around a truth he’s getting closer to. His eyes cut over to me, narrowed, but I can see fear in him—not just fear for me, but for the whole community. He worries about us more than we know. He worries we are always on the brink of extinction—our entire community could be wiped out by a single spore set loose from the trees, a disease that could kill us all within weeks. Or maybe all but one: all but me.
“No,” I croak in response, and finally, I take a sip of the whiskey, letting the amber warmth slide down my throat. I could tell him the truth—admit to what I’ve done. Perhaps my admission will help him to see that I can travel safely beyond our boundaries, that I could go for help. But the look in his eyes, the terrified, feral glint of a man who is weighted by too much responsibility, who worries his own friend has betrayed him by going past the boundary, forces my mouth shut.
He taps a finger against the edge of his empty glass and I find my eyes staring at it, unable to look away.