My hands were still shaking. I kept the gun on the soldier as he turned left onto the cracked road marked 80. I spun around, looking out behind us for signs of other vehicles. Soon they’d be coming for us, the King’s army on alert, searching for the people who had killed their men and stolen their car.
The soldier pressed down on the pedal. In the seat behind me, Caleb tried to bandage his leg. For an hour he’d applied pressure to the wound. Now he peeled the soaked pants from his skin, releasing another terrifying gush of blood.
“We have to stop the bleeding,” I said, as the Jeep barreled over uneven pavement. Caleb’s face had gone pale. “You’re losing too much blood.”
“I’m trying,” he said, fastening the ripped strip of fabric around his thigh. His movements had slowed, his hands pausing on the knot, as if he needed time to think before tying it tight. “I just have to get this . . .” he trailed off, his voice quieter than before.
I could see him slipping away, each movement more labored than the one before. I rested my finger on the trigger, my attention again on the soldier. In his face, I saw the two men in the cellar, their voices calm as they searched under furniture and through the closets, looking for us. I saw them killing Marjorie and Otis. I heard the blast that took Lark, and the violent snapping of twigs as they chased me through the woods.
“I told you to hurry up,” I said, my voice cold.
“I’m sorry, I’m trying,” the soldier said. His foot pressed the pedal again, sending me back into my seat.
Caleb let out a low groan. His hands were covered with blood. After a long while, the soldier glanced from the gun to the road. “If we stop, I can help him.”
I kept the pistol on him, afraid what he might do if I moved it away. Behind me, Caleb shook his head no.
“You’re lying,” I said. “It’s a trap. Keep moving.” We couldn’t have been more than sixty miles outside Califia. We would find help when we got there. Caleb would be able to rest.
“There’s an emergency kit in the glove compartment,” the young soldier offered. He nodded to the small plastic drawer in front of me. “I can stitch up the wound.”
“I don’t trust you,” I said. But behind me, Caleb was clenching his fists together, trying to steel himself against the pain.
“If I do it, you have to let me go.” The soldier’s gaze met mine, his eyes pleading under his thick awning of black lashes.
I looked behind me, where Caleb gripped the seat, his head back. His makeshift bandage wasn’t helping. Anything could go wrong: the old tires could explode, the gas tank could empty. And if we encountered any more troops he would need his strength. Caleb’s eyes closed as he drifted slowly, surely, into an unshakable sleep.
“Pull over,” I said finally. “Do it quickly.”
The Jeep veered off to the side of the road, stopping at a cluster of buildings. A giant, arcing yellow M towered above us. I got out of the car and circled it, keeping the gun on the soldier as he fumbled with the red bag from the front console. He pulled out a needle and threaded it.
There was purpose to his movements as he undid the tie around Caleb’s leg. His hands stopped shaking. He stuck a needle into the wound, injecting a clear fluid. Then he pulled a piece of gauze from the bag. I hadn’t seen anything so white since I left School. It was even brighter than the carefully laundered nightgowns we wore to bed.
“It’s not as deep as I thought,” he said. He pressed the gauze to Caleb’s skin, blotting the wound, now oozing a deep burgundy. Then he cleaned the gash and stitched it shut with black thread, his eyes indifferent to the gore.
By the time he was done, Caleb’s eyes were half open. “Thank you,” he said.
The young man turned to me, his eyes searching mine. “Can I go now?” Tears threatened to run over his cheeks.
Caleb shook his head again. “We need him to drive.”
“I promised,” I said slowly. I lowered the gun. Beyond us golden hills rolled on for miles.
“We can’t,” Caleb said again.
The soldier clasped his hands together, pleading. “I’m going to die out here anyway,” he said. “What do you want from me? I did what I said I was going to do.” He looked so vulnerable, with a thin chest and legs that were all bone. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen.
I nodded to the side of the Jeep, where the road gave way to sand and shrubs. “Go,” I said. “Now.”
Without looking back, he ran.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Caleb said. He studied the stitches in his leg. Then he adjusted himself, collapsing back into the comfort of the seat.
“He was just a boy,” I said.
“There are no boys in the King’s army.” Caleb’s skin was red from the day’s sun. “Who’s going to drive now?”
“I promised him,” I said again, so softly I doubted Caleb had heard.
I climbed into the front seat, trying to remember how we had even gotten to this place. I turned the key the way I’d seen the soldier do. I held the wheel as Caleb had, all those miles over the desert. Then I moved the stick in the center, letting it lock on the D.
I lowered my foot on the pedal and the Jeep lurched forward, picking up speed, moving faster and faster toward Califia.