what?” I ask, when I know what she’s going to say.
“From The Grove. A safe place that your father razed to the ground.”
When we left The Grove, it was collapsing, but I’m sure I saw survivors fleeing. Did I imagine it to make myself feel better? Did we kill them all ? The people and the trees?
And Quinn? Where is he?
Bea is studying me.
“Actually, Quinn’s father was in charge of that mission,” I say, watching for a reaction.
“Quinn?” the child murmurs through semiconsciousness, and Bea quickly hushes her.
So the child knows him, which could mean he’s been here. And maybe he’ll be back. I watch Bea for a few moments, but her expression gives nothing away. I can’t be sure Jazz didn’t meet him at The Grove when the Resistance supposedly captured them.
I root in my backpack and pull out a strip of penicillin, pressing one through the foil and holding out my hand. “Antibiotics.” She looks at the pill in my palm, suspicious. “If I wanted to hurt her, I’d have used the gun,” I say. “Now put away the knife . . . Please.”
Still holding the knife, Bea reaches out with her other hand for the pill. I consider wrestling the knife off her. I don’t. I drop the pill into the pit of her palm and step away. She eases the girl into a sitting position and presses it between the child’s lips, forcing her to sip some water from a flask. The child manages to take the pill before her eyes roll back in her head—she can’t fight her fatigue.
We were warned about terrorists in training, and back then my mind filled with images of stocky, square-jawed youths wielding guns and throwing grenades. I didn’t picture anything as pitiable as this: a child being eased into death by a hollow-cheeked girl fighting for her own breath on a dirty, solar-powered respirator.
“I can radio the pod,” I say. I doubt Jude would help, but she’s a child, and I should try. It’s the least I can do after what I did to her home. Were her parents at The Grove? Were they killed?
“Touch any kind of radio and I’ll cut you,” Bea says.
I hold my hands in the air. “I understand,” I say.
She erupts, jumping up and pushing me. “How dare you? You don’t understand a thing!”
I stare at her and lean away. “My father died in the riots, too,” I say.
“It’s not the same thing. My parents were good. Your father was . . . he was . . .”
“He was an asshole,” I say, and she blinks. I pause. I don’t want to say something untrue. “But I wish I loved him more.”
Her eyes well with tears. “When people leave, you always wish you’d loved them more.” She wipes her eyes and sniffs. And then she is sobbing and pressing her face against her arm to stifle the noise.
I’ve never been able to cry like this. My mother spent long days in bed, coughing and moaning, until one morning she was gone and the noise was replaced by silence. I cried only once—quietly and alone in my room. Why didn’t I honor her by mourning?
I delve back into my pack and pull out the radio. Bea looks up. “No,” she says, starting toward me again.
“If she doesn’t get to a hospital, you’ll be digging a grave.”
“They’ll kill her.”
“She’s dying anyway.” Bea chews on her lips.
I stand up and walk away.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“She could wake up and cry out while I’m making contact. I want them to think I’ve found the person I’m meant to be hunting.”
Bea doesn’t argue or ask any questions. “Her name is Jazz,” she says.
The rumble of the buggy’s engine can be heard when it’s still miles away. Bea pries each finger on Jazz’s hand from its grip on her arm. “You’ll be okay,” she says, almost like she believes it. She kisses Jazz lightly on the forehead, and stands up to gather her things. “What will you tell them?” she asks me.
“I found her alone and scared.” Jazz nods to show she’ll corroborate the lie. “Now find somewhere to hide and only
“From The Grove. A safe place that your father razed to the ground.”
When we left The Grove, it was collapsing, but I’m sure I saw survivors fleeing. Did I imagine it to make myself feel better? Did we kill them all ? The people and the trees?
And Quinn? Where is he?
Bea is studying me.
“Actually, Quinn’s father was in charge of that mission,” I say, watching for a reaction.
“Quinn?” the child murmurs through semiconsciousness, and Bea quickly hushes her.
So the child knows him, which could mean he’s been here. And maybe he’ll be back. I watch Bea for a few moments, but her expression gives nothing away. I can’t be sure Jazz didn’t meet him at The Grove when the Resistance supposedly captured them.
I root in my backpack and pull out a strip of penicillin, pressing one through the foil and holding out my hand. “Antibiotics.” She looks at the pill in my palm, suspicious. “If I wanted to hurt her, I’d have used the gun,” I say. “Now put away the knife . . . Please.”
Still holding the knife, Bea reaches out with her other hand for the pill. I consider wrestling the knife off her. I don’t. I drop the pill into the pit of her palm and step away. She eases the girl into a sitting position and presses it between the child’s lips, forcing her to sip some water from a flask. The child manages to take the pill before her eyes roll back in her head—she can’t fight her fatigue.
We were warned about terrorists in training, and back then my mind filled with images of stocky, square-jawed youths wielding guns and throwing grenades. I didn’t picture anything as pitiable as this: a child being eased into death by a hollow-cheeked girl fighting for her own breath on a dirty, solar-powered respirator.
“I can radio the pod,” I say. I doubt Jude would help, but she’s a child, and I should try. It’s the least I can do after what I did to her home. Were her parents at The Grove? Were they killed?
“Touch any kind of radio and I’ll cut you,” Bea says.
I hold my hands in the air. “I understand,” I say.
She erupts, jumping up and pushing me. “How dare you? You don’t understand a thing!”
I stare at her and lean away. “My father died in the riots, too,” I say.
“It’s not the same thing. My parents were good. Your father was . . . he was . . .”
“He was an asshole,” I say, and she blinks. I pause. I don’t want to say something untrue. “But I wish I loved him more.”
Her eyes well with tears. “When people leave, you always wish you’d loved them more.” She wipes her eyes and sniffs. And then she is sobbing and pressing her face against her arm to stifle the noise.
I’ve never been able to cry like this. My mother spent long days in bed, coughing and moaning, until one morning she was gone and the noise was replaced by silence. I cried only once—quietly and alone in my room. Why didn’t I honor her by mourning?
I delve back into my pack and pull out the radio. Bea looks up. “No,” she says, starting toward me again.
“If she doesn’t get to a hospital, you’ll be digging a grave.”
“They’ll kill her.”
“She’s dying anyway.” Bea chews on her lips.
I stand up and walk away.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“She could wake up and cry out while I’m making contact. I want them to think I’ve found the person I’m meant to be hunting.”
Bea doesn’t argue or ask any questions. “Her name is Jazz,” she says.
The rumble of the buggy’s engine can be heard when it’s still miles away. Bea pries each finger on Jazz’s hand from its grip on her arm. “You’ll be okay,” she says, almost like she believes it. She kisses Jazz lightly on the forehead, and stands up to gather her things. “What will you tell them?” she asks me.
“I found her alone and scared.” Jazz nods to show she’ll corroborate the lie. “Now find somewhere to hide and only
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