“Everyone’s meeting at the Church before dinner,” Micah said as he turned to leave, “so you’ll get to see them. You’ll sit in a pew, but don’t worry, that’s where the religious stuff ends.” He smiled. “This isn’t a bunch of believers.”
“You do look like a cult leader with that beard,” Cal said. He forced himself to smile, to show that he, too, could take it easy, let go a little.
“I wish I could cut it, man,” Micah said. “But every time I try, I get a weird rash.”
“Creams,” Frida said suddenly.
“Yeah, use some of the stuff in the Bath,” Cal said.
“Maybe,” Micah replied. Perhaps because he could feel more questions coming on, he stepped back. “I have some things to take care of. You’ll need to wait here in your room for a few hours until I’m done.” He nodded at the closet door. “There’s a bedpan in there, should nature call. We’ve also got latrines, but I’d rather you didn’t wander off until everyone on the Land’s been brought up to speed about you.” He paused. “I’m not having anyone stand guard outside your room or anything, but please don’t make me regret that.”
Frida nodded again, as if she didn’t mind being a hostage. Cal didn’t say anything.
Micah closed their door, and once they had privacy, Frida took off her shoes and moved to the floor. She began stretching, going through the basic vocabulary of the few yoga classes she’d taken in L.A.: downward dog, cat-cow, child’s pose. Her breath became slow and throaty, almost mournful. Cal leaned back in the bed and watched her. The metal knobs of the headboard dug into his skull, but he let them.
Frida had turned to stretching as a way to counteract anxiety; after weed became too expensive, this was the only thing that worked. Cal could remind her to breathe all the time, but such exhortations only worked if she was willing. He loved that she stretched, that these poses relaxed her nerves. She fought the body with the body.
As she moved through the poses, he thought about what Sailor had told them. August lived here. He was a member of this tribe, not some lone trader. Frida had looked so stunned by the news that Cal had forced himself to look away. If he hadn’t, he might have done something rash: punched Sailor in the mouth, or laughed at Frida like a maniac, or even fallen to his knees.
Now Cal wanted to ask her how Sailor had known Frida’s name. How had he known she was Micah’s—Mikey’s—sister? Maybe Micah had told the Land all about his older sister, and August had finally put it together who Frida was. But Micah was never one to blabber about his personal life, especially not after he’d joined the Group, and August didn’t seem like the type, either.
On their drive away from L.A., Frida and Cal had agreed that they wouldn’t tell anyone about her brother’s ties to the Group. No one had to know her brother had died or that she’d even had a brother. Cal said it was for safety; Frida had said it was for solace.
It had been easy to follow this rule with the Millers, who themselves acted as if there were only the present and a glorious, pure future. If Frida had tried to confide in Sandy, Sandy would have certainly shut her up.
But this had nothing to do with the Millers. Frida must have talked to August about her brother—he didn’t explicitly trade for secrets, but that was what he was after all along, wasn’t it? It was obvious, Cal decided: August had returned from trading with Frida to tell Micah that his sister was just a couple of days away. That his sister was not only nearby, but pregnant.
If Cal and Frida hadn’t come to the Land, Micah might have come to them.
“This bed is awful. We can sleep on the floor tonight,” Cal said.
Frida was lying on her back with her arms at her sides, her hands loose. Corpse pose.
Cal slid off the bed and peered into his backpack. His jeans and his shirt had been removed, as had the flashlight and the sleeping bag. All that remained were his empty canteen, his sweatshirt, and a pair of socks.
“I can’t believe they took our stuff. Why would they do that?”
Either these people were playing mind games, and they wanted Cal and Frida to feel needy and vulnerable, or they were just used to grabbing whatever they needed, whenever they needed it. Maybe ownership meant nothing on the Land, and any old possession could be taken from you, at any moment.
“I doubt my jeans are getting washed,” he said. He turned back to Frida, who hadn’t moved from the floor. “You should check your stuff, too, to see what’s left.”
Frida didn’t reply.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Micah is alive.”
“I know,” Cal said. He left his bag and sat down on the floor next to her. Her eyes were closed, but she didn’t flinch when he laid a hand on her stomach. It was warm, and her body moved with her breath.
“Kiss me,” she said, and he leaned down and did.
She pulled him on top of her and began kissing him more intensely, her hands on his back, crawling under his shirt. She wanted him. He felt how alive she was beneath his body, even after the shock. Or because of it. Cal pulled away.