We park the vehicle under the cover of some trees as the light fades. She is quiet, subdued. The time she spent under the tree where we broke our journey earlier today is weighing heavily on her, though I’m not sure I understand why. She kneeled there in the snow and cried a little. I stood off to the side, not wanting to intrude. I think it’s possible that her boy is buried under the ground there. The humans bury their dead sometimes, like seeds that they expect to grow into something else, a flower or a tree. As though burying them will change their destiny. It’s sad and kind of funny to me. I left Sixth where she fell because . . . well, because I couldn’t stand to look at her anymore.
Dandelion sits in the truck until I have built a fire. It is dangerously cold, and I think it’s worth the risk that the smoke will be seen. This kind of cold can kill humans, I know. I’ve seen it. I could keep her warm, just by being close to her, but she doesn’t care for closeness, not with me anyway. She sits opposite me, the heat of the fire distorting her pretty face. I dig out a can of some kind of food from my pack. She eats without comment, then curls up and goes to sleep.
I wish she would talk to me again, like in the tunnel when she asked me about my life and shared things from hers. It bothered me, the things she asked and the things she said, but it was better than this silence. When she sleeps, I feel alone and bound at the same time. I’m both with and without. With and without her, with and without my own people. With and without Sixth. With and without a reason to keep living.
But her questions unnerve me too. The things she wanted to know about our darts, our plans, that I couldn’t quite answer. And she spoke of me loving Sixth as though that was a normal thing for someone like me. She wants to know who and what I am, wants me to tell her, but I think she knows more about that than I do.
Tomorrow we will reach our destination and all this will be over. I’ll be on my own again. There is no going back this time.
My mind drifts in and out of focus. I think of noting the location of her refuge and reporting it back to the high ranks. I know that’s wrong, but it seems to fit. It’s the right thing to think, even though I would never, I could never betray Dandelion like that. I think of tearing my breathing tube out. I think of following her back to her people and hoping they . . . what? Like me? Accept me? Tolerate me as she does? I think of darting her as she sleeps and then wandering off into the snow until I find something to jump off or somewhere to sit and think. The dread of my last moment with her has so infused me in sludge right now, I can barely string two thoughts together. But at least they’re my thoughts. The hum of directives is a faint memory. If they changed, if there were new directives, I would never know. I have given myself new directives anyway. Save the life of this human. That’s what matters.
I tuck the cans of food she rejected back into the pack. As I reorganize things, I find a slim book and discover, remember rather, that I can read. “The Raven,” this book is called.
Ah, right, that’s her name. Raven. It does not suit her. Dandelion suits her much better. It’s not just her prettiness, or her cloud of sunny hair. She reminds me of the bright little flowers that grew everywhere during the summer, unbowed by the destruction my people wrought. It was as though they refused to be conquered. But I suppose ravens are like that too. And humans. This human in particular.
I read the raven book, then read it again. Why do humans read things like this? Are they masochists in love with pain? I have to resist the urge to throw it into the fire, so miserable it makes me. I wonder if there is a written thing on this planet that is sadder.
Slipping my hand into her pocket as she sleeps, I unfold the letter that inflamed her so much her body wafted with endorphins. It is not mine to read—I know this somehow, this rule of privacy that the humans treasure so much. It is not part of my culture—we don’t have secrets—but I understand it anyway. This doesn’t stop me from reading the letter from the boy who shot me, Topher. The boy who loves Dandelion. The one she loves back, though I’m not sure she knows it.
My head starts to hurt as I read. We are low, for me. The altimeter on my sleeve reads 2,000 feet, about 500 feet lower than is healthy. Soon my muscles and bones will ache too. Eventually, probably, I will die, gasping for breath, blood drowning my lungs. I think that’s what happens. Maybe Sixth explained this to me once.
The letter transfixes me. I can’t stop reading it, and I find it is sadder than the raven book. I don’t think after reading it countless times that he loves her as much as I do, but to her, I suppose that doesn’t matter. I would never have stopped searching though, if I were him. I would never have left her side. That other one in the stadium would have to have killed me first before he touched her. This Topher is stupid and weak like all human men. I could crush him like a snail on a rock and eat his remains.
We’ve been told not to eat human remains, although some ignore that advice. Personally, I keep away from humans dead or alive. Except Dandelion. I can’t keep away from her.
When I turn to her, she is looking at me, her face a mask of horror. I still have the letter in my hand.
“Give that back!” she says, sitting up. The fire blazes in her eyes. “That’s mine!”
I don’t know why I do it. I’m so hurt and angry at that moment, for no good reason either. She doesn’t belong to me. We are not bound together as Sixth and I were. She owes me nothing. She has promised me nothing. Nothing is what I deserve.
I throw the letter into the fire.
“No!” she cries. I grab her wrists before she can dive after it. The fire consumes the paper quickly, in a flash of flame and smoke. She flicks her wrists back and away.
There follows a silence so deep and long that I’m genuinely afraid she will kill me with the knife I gave her. I burn, I burn so hot that I plunge my hands into the deep snow beside me. Finally, she speaks, her voice low and cracked and swollen with fury.
“You . . . despicable . . . horrible . . . MONSTER!”
I nod. Yes. Yes. She’s right. She’s absolutely right.
“How could you do that?”
I’ve made her cry again. I hate myself so much right now, if throwing myself into the fire would help, I would do it.
“I might never see him again,” she sobs. I turn away and shield my eyes with my hands. “Look at me! Look at me!”
Sorry. Sorry. Forever sorry.
“Stop saying that! You can’t do horrible things and expect to be forgiven because you say you’re sorry. You have to stop doing horrible things. Stop ruining things. Stop hurting me.”
I hit myself in the chest.
Please, please, please. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
“Shut up!” she screams, although I have not made any noise. I stand and walk into the trees, away from her. The smell of pine needles gives me a few blissful seconds and I forget why she’s angry, but then she yells after me.
“I might never see him again! He could be dead!”