reasons Samantha wasn’t able to explain, she stepped close to the man, reached out a hand, and lightly touched the edge of the wound over his heart.
“Are you going to die?” she asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said, but if anything the sadness in his eyes intensified as he said it.
“Can you walk?”
He shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “Not alone.”
“Are you safe?” Samantha raised her hand from his chest to his cheek. “Will you hurt me?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not safe.”
She almost pulled her hand away.
“But I won’t hurt you, Samantha.”
She stiffened. “But—but—how do you know my name?”
He did not answer the question. “My name’s Mike.”
In the gathering dusk, caught in the web of so strange an encounter, Samantha remembered two things. The first was something Ida had said to them once about twilight when all the girls were little.
“Twilight is a strange time, my girls,” Ida had said. “In daylight you can see things the way they are. At night everything’s a guess, ’cause so many things are hidden by shadows. But twilight is a little of both. It’s real and unreal. You see things, but you can’t be sure of what you see. People used to believe that twilight was when the world of what’s real and what’s unreal creaks open. If you’re not careful, you can step right through into who knows where. Or maybe something from over there can step through.”
Heather had asked, “Something from where?”
And Ida had answered, “From anywhere that isn’t here.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” declared Samantha, who, even when young, was not given to fancy.
Ida gave them all a wink and a knowing smile. “During twilight nothing has to make sense.”
Now it was twilight, and things seemed to have stopped making clear sense. It was like the sharp edges that defined the world during the day had been sanded down to a point where they were indistinct and untrustworthy.
“Listen to me,” said Mike, wincing as pain flashed through him. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?” asked Samantha suspiciously.
He shivered with the onset of shock and fever. “If you help me now, tonight . . . then I’ll make sure nothing ever happens to you and your friends.”
“You can’t make a promise like that.”
He smiled. It was the most human thing about him. Despite the blood and his wounds, despite the strangeness of his eyes and the impossibility of his knowing her name, despite everything that made this encounter seem like something out of a dream, that smile held no trace of threat. None.
“Yes,” he said, “I can make that promise.”
She started to back away.
“Please,” he said.
Please.
In the woods far behind them, they could hear the dead moan as they followed the silent calls of the reapers.
Without realizing that she was going to do it, Samantha turned sideways to him.
“Come on,” she said, “lean on me.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure? You can still walk away.”
She looked down at the ground. His feet were bare, and there was dirt caked under his toenails as if he’d dug them into the ground. His clothes did not look like they’d been cut. They looked like they’d burst apart.
Samantha knew that she should have been terrified. She knew that she should shove this man away from her, that she should run to find her friends and then run farther until this place was far behind her.
She knew that.
And yet.
There was something about this man.
Here was a person who had suffered so much, survived so much, had so much will to live that he risked making promises despite being on the edge of death. And in the woods here were the living dead and those whose purpose was to exterminate all life.
It came down to that choice.
Between the takers of life and a man who clearly fought harder than anyone she had ever met to belong to life.
If it was a strange choice for her to make, then she blamed it on
“Are you going to die?” she asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said, but if anything the sadness in his eyes intensified as he said it.
“Can you walk?”
He shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “Not alone.”
“Are you safe?” Samantha raised her hand from his chest to his cheek. “Will you hurt me?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not safe.”
She almost pulled her hand away.
“But I won’t hurt you, Samantha.”
She stiffened. “But—but—how do you know my name?”
He did not answer the question. “My name’s Mike.”
In the gathering dusk, caught in the web of so strange an encounter, Samantha remembered two things. The first was something Ida had said to them once about twilight when all the girls were little.
“Twilight is a strange time, my girls,” Ida had said. “In daylight you can see things the way they are. At night everything’s a guess, ’cause so many things are hidden by shadows. But twilight is a little of both. It’s real and unreal. You see things, but you can’t be sure of what you see. People used to believe that twilight was when the world of what’s real and what’s unreal creaks open. If you’re not careful, you can step right through into who knows where. Or maybe something from over there can step through.”
Heather had asked, “Something from where?”
And Ida had answered, “From anywhere that isn’t here.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” declared Samantha, who, even when young, was not given to fancy.
Ida gave them all a wink and a knowing smile. “During twilight nothing has to make sense.”
Now it was twilight, and things seemed to have stopped making clear sense. It was like the sharp edges that defined the world during the day had been sanded down to a point where they were indistinct and untrustworthy.
“Listen to me,” said Mike, wincing as pain flashed through him. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?” asked Samantha suspiciously.
He shivered with the onset of shock and fever. “If you help me now, tonight . . . then I’ll make sure nothing ever happens to you and your friends.”
“You can’t make a promise like that.”
He smiled. It was the most human thing about him. Despite the blood and his wounds, despite the strangeness of his eyes and the impossibility of his knowing her name, despite everything that made this encounter seem like something out of a dream, that smile held no trace of threat. None.
“Yes,” he said, “I can make that promise.”
She started to back away.
“Please,” he said.
Please.
In the woods far behind them, they could hear the dead moan as they followed the silent calls of the reapers.
Without realizing that she was going to do it, Samantha turned sideways to him.
“Come on,” she said, “lean on me.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure? You can still walk away.”
She looked down at the ground. His feet were bare, and there was dirt caked under his toenails as if he’d dug them into the ground. His clothes did not look like they’d been cut. They looked like they’d burst apart.
Samantha knew that she should have been terrified. She knew that she should shove this man away from her, that she should run to find her friends and then run farther until this place was far behind her.
She knew that.
And yet.
There was something about this man.
Here was a person who had suffered so much, survived so much, had so much will to live that he risked making promises despite being on the edge of death. And in the woods here were the living dead and those whose purpose was to exterminate all life.
It came down to that choice.
Between the takers of life and a man who clearly fought harder than anyone she had ever met to belong to life.
If it was a strange choice for her to make, then she blamed it on
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