He nods firmly, satisfied. Sad, he signs before standing and disappearing into the kitchen.
The cold stone inside me breaks for him then, a little bit. What he must think of this terrible story of a man haunted by the memory of his lost love, Lenore. Of all of human literature, that he should read this one, this depressing, fatalistic dish of melancholy. It can’t have been good for him. The fact that he seemed to understand it so well tells me something about him too. I see him then, as that miserable wretch, cowering in his lonely chamber, unable to let go of who he is, what he’s done, and all that he’s lost. I swallow a sob, crushing the blankets over my mouth so he won’t hear.
All this time I thought I was the saddest person in the world, when really, it’s probably him. It takes an hour of intense concentration for me to finally convince myself that he deserves all the sadness he feels. That the things I think about him and his sorrow must be imagined. That I know nothing about his life before he rescued me in the stadium. That I don’t care. That I only need him until I find Topher again. That Topher will put an arrow into his neck this time, and that will be the end of it, the end of August, the Nahx.
Then I will think of him nevermore.
The day comes when I am able walk down to the ground floor and back up, forty flights. I sweat and pant, but there is no discernible strain to my convalescing lungs or leg. I took the splint off in the previous week, and my arm feels strong too, as I jab and block at my shadow in the hallway. I feel strong. Strong enough to leave, maybe, but probably not strong enough to fight him off if he tries to stop me.
We have been here for five weeks. August still brings me things nearly every day. Food mainly, though I prepare my own meals now, and clothes. I have shown him that warm clothes make me happy, so he piles them up all over the apartment. So far they are all indoor clothes. I haven’t figured out a way to express a desire for outdoor clothes without revealing my intention to leave him. After all this time, I’m still not sure he would let me.
I remember an outdoor equipment supplier on the outskirts of town. Tucker and I bought our sleeping bags for camp there. It’s a half-hour walk, an hour, tops. If I bundle up with enough sweaters and the day is fine, I’ll make it with no trouble. My plan is to leave soon, but I don’t set a date or a deadline. I want to wait for the right moment, then slip away. I don’t want him to sense my anticipation. Feeling less dependent on him softens my hatred somewhat. I don’t want him to know I’m leaving and try to stop me, because I would have to kill him. There are still sharp knives in the kitchen. I know exactly where they all are, as well as the one under the sofa where I sleep, and others wrapped among the pile of clothes I’ve amassed. I have studied his neck, where the armor is weaker, when he’s not looking. I know I could do it, if I caught him by surprise, but I don’t want to as much as I once did. He saved my life, though I never asked him to. He deserves at least that much consideration in return.
Though my mood improves with my recovery, his does not. I often find him in the long hallway, leaning on the wall, holding his head in his left hand. Occasionally I find him the other way, leaning on the right, with his left hand extended, like he is reaching for something. Once, unable to help myself, I ask him what’s wrong.
Tired, he signs, letting his left hand fall. I don’t think he means from lack of sleep. I think he’s growing tired of me and my venom. Who could blame him?
One day, to my astonishment, he brings me a working laptop computer. There are two computers in the penthouse and several in the other apartments, but none of them are working. There is no power—that’s part of the problem—but the laptops at least should have had some battery time left, but they don’t. This is why I’m so surprised when this one boots up, like nothing happened. Seeing the home screen with the owner’s files, the full battery icon, and boxes popping up fills me with nostalgia for a world that feels centuries past, not just months.
I spot the wireless icon flashing, one weak signal bar. Somehow, it has connected with a network. This could be . . . I slam the laptop shut.
“Thanks,” I say evenly. “I’ll play with it later, maybe. I don’t want to waste the battery.”
He nods lightly and leaves me, unaware, I hope, of what he has given me.
Later that day, after I watch him trail his left hand down the wall of the long hallway and disappear into the stairwell, I take the computer around the apartment, searching for a better signal. Not surprisingly, out on the west-facing terrace is best. There are several high buildings in my sight line, and even, in the distance, what looks like a cell phone tower. According to Kim, lots of these are fitted with solar-powered transmitters and connected to the emergency broadcast system.
“Damn . . . ,” I whisper. It’s amazing what you don’t know in this world until everything goes to hell.
I look at my watch—oddly enough, after everything, it still keeps good time—it’s three in the afternoon. I close the computer then, knowing my chances of receiving anything are best at noon. Maybe my chances of sending anything are best then too. What would I send? Mayday? SOS? Would anyone come?
It’s a while before I can get the laptop out onto the terrace at noon. For some reason August lurks around until after midday for three days, after kneeling by me through the night. Perhaps because it has been particularly cold, or perhaps he has his own reasons. I struggle not to show my frustration. Finally, on the third day, in the morning, I try to entice him out of the penthouse with a promise of my fleeting happiness.
“I’d love to have some more of that chocolate,” I say. It’s embarrassing how quickly he reacts. In seconds he has fled, practically running as I listen to his heavy metallic footsteps echoing down the stairs. Why is he so quick to try to provide the things I want when surely he must know what I want most is to leave him? I start to wonder if he’s really what’s keeping me here. Or was it my injuries? Maybe I’m too scared to set off on my own.
I grab the laptop and take it back out onto the terrace. The sun is approaching its apex in the sky, still low on the southern horizon, but it’s a bright day, and warm enough that I don’t even bother putting socks or slippers on.
If there is any signal at all, it should be easy to find it. I’ll ration the battery time. Ten minutes to search for signals, send messages, or download information. Twenty minutes to view files or anything else I’ve found. Half an hour per day. That way, if this is a good battery, it should last for a week or two. Maybe I won’t be here for that long, but I have to always plan for the worst.