“Tag,” I say to Hana, giving her a tap on the shoulder. “You’re it.”
And then I’m off and she’s yelping and leaping to catch up, and we’re rounding the track and heading down to the piers without hesitating or debating our route. My legs feel strong, steady; the bite I got on the night of the raids has healed well and completely, leaving just a thin red mark along the back of my calf, like a smile. The cool air pumps in and out of my lungs, aching, but it’s the good kind of pain: the pain that reminds you how amazing it is to breathe, to ache, to be able to feel at all. Salt stings my eyes and I blink rapidly, not sure whether I’m sweating or crying.
It’s not the fastest run we’ve ever been on, but I think it might be one of our best. We keep up the same exact rhythm, running almost shoulder to shoulder, drawing a loop from the old harbor all the way out to Eastern Prom.
We’re slower than we were at the start of the summer, that’s for sure. At about the three-mile mark both of us are starting to lag, and by silent agreement we both cut down the sloping lawn onto the beach, flinging ourselves onto the sand, starting to laugh.
“Two minutes,” Hana says, gasping. “I just need two minutes.”
“Pathetic,” I say, even though I’m just as grateful for the pause.
“Right back at you,” she says, lobbing a handful of sand in my direction. Both of us flop onto our backs, arms and legs flung apart like we’re about to make snow angels. The sand is surprisingly cool on my skin, and a little damp. It must have rained earlier after all, maybe when Alex and I were in the Crypts. Thinking again of that tiny cell and the words drilled straight through the wall, sun revolving through the O as though beamed through a telescope, makes that thing constrict in my chest again. Even now, this second, my mother is out there somewhere—moving, breathing, being.
Well, soon I’ll be out there too.
There are only a few people on the beach, mostly families walking, and one old man, plodding slowly by the water, staking his cane into the sand. The sun is sinking farther beyond the clouds, and the bay is a hard gray, just barely tinged with green.
“I can’t believe in only a few weeks we won’t have to worry about curfew anymore,” Hana says, then swivels her head to look at me. “Less than three weeks, for you. Sixteen days, right?”
“Yeah.” I don’t like to lie to Hana so I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees.
“I think on my first night cured I’m going to stay out all night. Just because I can.” Hana props herself up on her elbows. “We can make a plan to do it together—you and me.” There’s a pleading note in her voice. I know I should just say, Yeah, sure, or That sounds great. I know it would make her feel better—it would make me feel better—to pretend that life will go on as usual.
But I can’t force the words out. Instead I start blotting bits of sand from my thighs with a thumb. “Listen, Hana. I have to tell you something. About the procedure . . .”
“What about it?” She squints at me. She’s heard some note of seriousness in my voice, and it has worried her.
“Promise you won’t be mad, okay? I won’t be able to—” I stop myself before I can say, I won’t be able to leave if you’re mad at me. I’m getting ahead of myself.
Hana sits up completely, holding up a hand, forcing a laugh. “Let me guess. You’re jumping ship with Alex, making a run for it, going all rogue and Invalid on me.” She says it jokingly but there’s an edge to her voice, an undercurrent of neediness. She wants me to contradict her.
I don’t say anything, though. For a minute we just stare at each other, and all the light and energy drains from her face at once.
“You’re not serious,” she says finally. “You can’t be serious.”
“I have to, Hana,” I tell her quietly.
“When?” She bites her lip and looks away.
“We decided today. This morning.”
“No. I mean—when. When are you going?”
I hesitate for only a second. After this morning, I feel like I don’t know very much about the world or anything in it. But I do know that Hana would never, ever betray me—not now, at least, not until they stick needles into her brain and pick her apart, tease her into pieces. I realize now that that’s what the cure does, after all: It fractures people, cuts them off from themselves.
But by then—by the time they get to her—it will be too late. “Friday,” I say. “A week from now.”
She breathes out sharply, the air whistling between her teeth. “You can’t be serious,” she repeats.
“There’s nothing for me here,” I say.