I keep walking, winding in and out of the trunks and branches, until the glow of the fire is just a speck in the distance. She doesn’t follow or call after me. I could keep going. She’ll be safe enough, out here, in the middle of nowhere. At any rate, if my people took her in an hour or a day, or if she froze or starved or was eaten by a wolf, I would never know. I could pretend forever that she was still alive. That we might be together again. I could dream like that boy Topher does. Like she does. She dreams of being with him again. She says his name as she sleeps.
I burned his letter to her. Why did I do it?
I’m a monster. How could I do that? I want her to be happy. That can never be while I’m around. I wish I could make a hot bath for her again, or find her some of that sweet food she liked so much. But I can give her only one thing that will make her happy. I can bring her safely back to the human boy. I can do this. I will do this. My head is now pounding so hard I can barely focus my eyes as I turn and trudge back to her, back to the fire. She sits, her arms wrapped around her legs, staring into the flames.
Say something.
“What do you want me to say?”
I kneel down on one knee across from her and tuck another log into the fire. She looks away. I reach over the fire and lift her chin, so she’s looking at me.
I promise you will see Topher again.
She repeats the sign for “promise,” like an arrow over the mouth. “I don’t know what that means.”
How can I explain a promise? In our signs it means something more like “I will obey” or “I will succeed,” but I know to the humans it means something different. It is less formal, more personal, coming from a warmer place; and it implies something about a shared future. How I know this is a mystery.
Good words. Forever.
“Good speak? Like truth? Promise? Why would I believe a promise from you?” Shaking her head, she lies down by the fire again, pulling the blanket over herself. “If we do ever find Topher, there’s a very good chance he’ll kill you. That’s my promise.”
Topher can try, I think. Maybe I’ll let him.
I promise to try to not fight back, when he comes after me.
RAVEN
There are two types of silences with August. There is the silence inherent in the fact that he doesn’t talk. The everyday silence that almost achieves companionability at times. The silence that has never scared or unnerved me, never felt like punishment or perversion, that feels natural. It feels like he is offering as much as he can, hiding nothing, and it is almost enough.
Then there is this kind of silence—the silence that hangs over me like a sentence of solitary confinement. When looking at him feels like spying. When despite his size he seems to shrink down to near invisibility, when he turns his head away from me, away from the rising sun, away from his shadow in the snow. This kind of silence would make a grave seem lively.
His remorse is impressive, as always. And for a moment on waking, when I see that he has roused me by poking my foot with a long stick, I wonder what it’s for. Then I remember the letter and the flames. At least he didn’t burn the map, I tell myself. Topher will write other notes.
He kicks snow on the smoking embers of the fire and slings the packs into the cab of the truck. As I unravel myself from the blanket, stretching and struggling to my feet, he stares down the dirt road back the way we came, then off into the trees in the other direction.
I go now, he signs as I approach.
I look into the trees and visualize him walking slowly through the snow, headed nowhere, forever, or until the land runs out, or he runs out. Maybe he could reach the Arctic Ocean or the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic, the Pacific. I wonder if he can swim.
“Don’t go,” I say. I feel the words “We have more time” forming in my throat. Why would I say that though? I stare back at the remains of the fire, Topher’s letter now dust among the charred wood and ashes. I know why August burned it. He thinks he loves me. He’s jealous. I should be angry, furious, but instead I’m just sad. “Come with me, August,” I say. “It’s okay.”
Yes?
God. What I am going to do with him?
He crouches in the back as I drive and drive, his rifle in one hand, the other hand gripping the edge of the flatbed. The going is infuriatingly slow over icy roads piled with snowdrifts. We stop to refuel with our last canister when, by the map, which I’ve been carefully marking with a red pencil I found in the truck, I estimate we are still more than a hundred miles away.
“We might run out of gas,” I say.
Walk, he says, shrugging.
“It could be far.”
I’ll carry you.
I turn away so he can’t see the smile on my face. Stupid alien robot thing. It’s so hard to stay mad at him.
As I feared, the fuel runs out in a wide treeless expanse of flat white nothing. The truck coughs and rattles, and I say a silent prayer, though I know it’s useless. The engine sputters, and I feel tears in the corners of my eyes, not knowing how close we are or how far. After we roll to a stop, I unfold the map and stare at it in my lap until the rocking tells me August has climbed out of the back. He taps on the window. Still staring at the map, I roll it down.
Behind him, in the white, there are no landmarks, no features to indicate or even suggest where we are. The last part of the map is represented by a ten-mile winding, swirling road that I remember made me quite ill when we drove out an eternity ago. We have been driving along a straight, wide highway since dawn. No sign of winding roads. None of the turnoffs looked right. But maybe I missed it. I slam my hands into the steering wheel in frustration, over and over, harder and harder until August reaches through the window and grabs my hands, stilling them. Holding them. Gently at first but then squeezing them until they start to hurt. He releases me as soon as I pull away.
Promise, he signs.
I’d like to tell him to shove his promise up his ass, but what would that accomplish? Instead, I open the door and step out into the snow. It’s much warmer than I expected, though it is overcast. My watch tells me it’s midafternoon. We have a couple of hours of sunlight left at most. I’m not sure whether to camp here in the truck for the night or keep walking, in the hopes that we find some shelter or cover before dark. With no idea how far we have to go, it’s hard to make a call like that, but August seems to have his own ideas. He scoops the larger pack from the cab and slings it over his shoulder, turning to look at me expectantly.
Carry?
I sniff back a laugh. “I think I’ll walk, thank you.”
He simply lays his left hand on my right shoulder, turning me gently and nudging me forward along the road. Then we’re walking again. Minutes later he pulls me to a stop and tugs my hood, scarf, and cap up over my hair, tucking away the puffs of errant curls escaping from the twists as he does so.
“Do I look like you now?” I say, holding my arms out for inspection.