“I’m just saying”—Liv lifts a flop of hair from his eyes delicately—“I wouldn’t feel bad about your mother. It’s not like you can help that she was a whore.”
Shane grabs Liv’s wrist hard and twists it. Liv yelps. He shoves her wrist forward, sending her flying backward off the stair and onto the hard ground. I scream—a gargle that I swallow—tuck my head, and bite the flesh triangle between my thumb and finger. Then I rise to see again, because he might do something more. I need to stop him, but he’s crawling over to her, weeping like a baby, and she is already on her knees consoling him.
“What the hell? You made me do it. Why’d you start talking like that? I shouldn’t have shoved you, you just made me so mad. I’m sorry.” He drops his face into his hands and bawls.
“Shane!” Liv peels his hands away from his face. “Shane, listen to me: I crossed the line.”
He buries his face in her chest.
“Look at me!” She lifts his pocked, gleaming cheeks and forces him to look in her eyes. “What you did was right. I said something horrible about your mother. I deserved it.” Liv’s voice is different. Commanding.
“I won’t let it happen again,” he blubbers.
“Shh. Your love for me is just so strong, sometimes you can’t control it. It’s okay. I get it. I’m flattered. It means you must really love me.”
His head rises slowly. “So much.”
She pulls his head against the middle of her chest. “I’m counting on it.”
*
I lie in a fetal position on my backseat, past when they stumble back to the car, arms entwined, past when I hear them finish making out, past when Shane revs the engine of his muscle car and does two hard skids then a long, slow burnout, past when the sky blazes orange just before the sun dives below the horizon. Only then do I open my car door, lean into the crisp air, and vomit.
SIX
357 Days After the Woods
“Here we are, you and me. Not what I expected. But something.”
I squeeze the tiny sharp stick I conceal in my palm, barely a stick at all, but I will jam it in his eye if he tries to touch me. My body tingles, ready to fight.
“But something,” I repeat.
He scowls. It was nervy to remind him I am human. I cower inside the polyester sleeping bag. Two sleeping bags, tucked inside a hollow log, in this spot. Premeditation. My bowels rumble, loose and spastic, reminding me of my second-biggest fear at this moment.
He stamps over and looms, night vision goggles perched on his forehead. I inch my stick nearer to the opening of the bag. He sways, reeking of smoke and wet wool. In another world, he is the guy in short sleeves and wrinkled khakis working at Best Buy. Here, the fire makes sinister shadows across his face. He shakes his finger in front of my nose.
“Not. Her.”
He giggles and falls back onto his sleeping bag, feet flying up in the air like a baby. He plants his boots and reaches up his pant leg, flourishing the knife. “Just in case you get any stupid ideas.”
A stick is no match for a knife.
He props his back against a tree to stay awake. His movements become twitches until he slumps. I slip one hand from the bag and wave it in the air.
One minute, then two.
Clouds pass in front of the moon and shadows fall over his slumped form. I am colder than I ever thought possible. But my body is still mine. After hours of this creature dragging me to wherever in this woods he is taking me to, my body is still mine, in that way.
My eyes sweep over our crude campsite with its fire that has attracted no rescuers. I trace every shadowy outline beyond it for some clue. If I’m right, we’re in the exact place where Liv and I aren’t supposed to go, but do. Ten feet behind me should be the north edge of the Sheepfold, a steep slope camouflaged when the ground is covered in leaves. But in early winter, when the ground is bare, you can see it’s a yawning gorge. I roll over in my bag and squint into the darkness, until I detect the barely perceptible demarcation, where violet turns to the absolute absence of light. The drop.
I wonder if he knows these woods as well as I do. The pain in my ballooning ankle has gone from sharp to fuzzy. Even if I manage to hop-drag past without waking him, it will take hours to reach the groomed trail. He knows this; it is the only reason my legs are not bound. If he wakes, I will never outrun him.
There’s only one thing to do. Don’t use my feet.
I shimmy into my bag, sneakers pushing against the bottom seam. Raise my bound hands above my head to protect it. Close my eyes. And roll.