all killing each other. It was so stupid. For nothing.”
He pauses.
“ The bombs were dropped, and my entire unit got wiped out. I was lucky—underground when they hit. I got out, made it back to my family. I knew I needed to go back and protect them.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
“ When I got home, my parents were dead.”
He pauses a long time.
“ They left a note,” he says, pausing. “They killed each other.”
He looks up at me, his eyes wet.
“ I guess they saw what the world was going to be like—and they didn’t want any part of it.”
I’m taken aback by his story. I feel a heaviness in my chest. I can’t imagine what he went through. No wonder he’s so guarded.
“ I’m so sorry,” I say. Now I regret having even asked. I feel like I pried.
“ I was more sorry for my kid brother than for me,” he says. “He was 10. I found him at home, hiding. Traumatized. But surviving. I don’t know how. I was about to take him away somewhere when the slaverunners showed up. They had us surrounded and outnumbered. I put up a fight, wasted some of them. But there was nothing I could do. There were just too many of them.
“ They made me a deal: they’d let my brother go if I joined them. They said I’d never need to capture anyone—only to stand guard at the arena.”
He pauses for a long time.
“ I justified it to myself. I wanted my brother to live. And after all, I heard that there are far worse arenas out there than Arena One.”
The thought fills me with panic: I had never imagined anything worse could be out there.
“ How is that possible?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “There’s all sorts of sick things out there,” he says. “Gangs. Cannibals. Mutants. And other arenas that make One look like nothing.”
He sighs.
“ Anyway, I gave my little brother two guns, fully loaded, two weeks’ worth of food, my motorcycle, and sent him away, on Route 80, heading west. I told him to head to our uncle Jack’s house, in Ohio, if it was even still standing. At least it was a destination. I made sure he hit the highway, and was going in the right direction. That was the last I ever saw of him.”
He sighs.
“ The slaverunners took me away, made me one of them, and I stood guard in the arena. For months, every night, I watched the games. It made me sick. I saw new people come and go every night. But I never saw anyone make it out of there alive. Never. Until you came.”
He looks at me.
“ You were the only one.”
I look back at him, surprised.
“ When I saw you fighting, I knew my time had come. I had to leave that place. And I had to do whatever I could to help you.”
I think back and remember when I first met him, how grateful I was to him for helping us. I remember our trip downtown, his nursing me through being sick, how grateful I was to him again.
“ You said something to me once,” I say. “I asked you why did it. Why you helped me. And you said I reminded you of someone.” I look at him, my heart pounding. I’ve been wanting to ask him this forever. “Who?”
He looks back into the fire. He’s quiet for such a long time, I wonder if he’ll answer me.
Finally, in a quiet voice, he says. “My girlfriend.”
This floors me. Somehow, I can’t imagine Logan with a girlfriend. I envision him in a military barracks. I’m also shocked that I remind him of her. It makes me wonder. Who was she? Did she look like me? Is that why he did it? Does he see her when he sees me? Or does he really like me?
Instead, I can only summon the courage to ask, “What happened to her?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “Dead.”
I’ve asked too much. In another time and place, they would be harmless questions; but this is not a harmless age we live in, and here and now, even the most innocuous question leads to lethal answers. I should’ve remembered what I learned years ago: better not to ask anyone anything. Better to just live in the silence, in the wasteland. Better
He pauses.
“ The bombs were dropped, and my entire unit got wiped out. I was lucky—underground when they hit. I got out, made it back to my family. I knew I needed to go back and protect them.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
“ When I got home, my parents were dead.”
He pauses a long time.
“ They left a note,” he says, pausing. “They killed each other.”
He looks up at me, his eyes wet.
“ I guess they saw what the world was going to be like—and they didn’t want any part of it.”
I’m taken aback by his story. I feel a heaviness in my chest. I can’t imagine what he went through. No wonder he’s so guarded.
“ I’m so sorry,” I say. Now I regret having even asked. I feel like I pried.
“ I was more sorry for my kid brother than for me,” he says. “He was 10. I found him at home, hiding. Traumatized. But surviving. I don’t know how. I was about to take him away somewhere when the slaverunners showed up. They had us surrounded and outnumbered. I put up a fight, wasted some of them. But there was nothing I could do. There were just too many of them.
“ They made me a deal: they’d let my brother go if I joined them. They said I’d never need to capture anyone—only to stand guard at the arena.”
He pauses for a long time.
“ I justified it to myself. I wanted my brother to live. And after all, I heard that there are far worse arenas out there than Arena One.”
The thought fills me with panic: I had never imagined anything worse could be out there.
“ How is that possible?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “There’s all sorts of sick things out there,” he says. “Gangs. Cannibals. Mutants. And other arenas that make One look like nothing.”
He sighs.
“ Anyway, I gave my little brother two guns, fully loaded, two weeks’ worth of food, my motorcycle, and sent him away, on Route 80, heading west. I told him to head to our uncle Jack’s house, in Ohio, if it was even still standing. At least it was a destination. I made sure he hit the highway, and was going in the right direction. That was the last I ever saw of him.”
He sighs.
“ The slaverunners took me away, made me one of them, and I stood guard in the arena. For months, every night, I watched the games. It made me sick. I saw new people come and go every night. But I never saw anyone make it out of there alive. Never. Until you came.”
He looks at me.
“ You were the only one.”
I look back at him, surprised.
“ When I saw you fighting, I knew my time had come. I had to leave that place. And I had to do whatever I could to help you.”
I think back and remember when I first met him, how grateful I was to him for helping us. I remember our trip downtown, his nursing me through being sick, how grateful I was to him again.
“ You said something to me once,” I say. “I asked you why did it. Why you helped me. And you said I reminded you of someone.” I look at him, my heart pounding. I’ve been wanting to ask him this forever. “Who?”
He looks back into the fire. He’s quiet for such a long time, I wonder if he’ll answer me.
Finally, in a quiet voice, he says. “My girlfriend.”
This floors me. Somehow, I can’t imagine Logan with a girlfriend. I envision him in a military barracks. I’m also shocked that I remind him of her. It makes me wonder. Who was she? Did she look like me? Is that why he did it? Does he see her when he sees me? Or does he really like me?
Instead, I can only summon the courage to ask, “What happened to her?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “Dead.”
I’ve asked too much. In another time and place, they would be harmless questions; but this is not a harmless age we live in, and here and now, even the most innocuous question leads to lethal answers. I should’ve remembered what I learned years ago: better not to ask anyone anything. Better to just live in the silence, in the wasteland. Better
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