The Distance Between Lost and Found by Kathryn Holmes Page B

cushion on top of the rock, and then helps Hallelujah move closer so her leg is as comfortable as possible.
    â€œThere,” Rachel says. She sits back. “Are you okay?”
    Hallelujah nods. Her eyes well up again. Jonah and Rachel stare down at her. Having their eyes on her reminds her, abruptly, of that night with Luke, and she has to shake her head to clear that image out. “I’m fine,” she says. She closes her eyes and tries to will the throbbing to stop.
    It doesn’t.
    Which is why, God knows how long later, after Rachel has fallen asleep on the ground next to her, Hallelujah is still awake. Watching the fire flicker.
    â€œJonah?” she says softly. She can’t see him. He could be asleep too.
    But he’s not. He stirs. “Yeah?”
    â€œI can’t sleep.”
    â€œDoes it hurt bad?”
    â€œIt’s . . .” She manages a small snort. “It’s not good.”
    A shifting behind her. Jonah’s shadow comes into her line of vision. Jonah himself follows. He sits next to her, careful not to block the fire’s warmth from reaching her. Hallelujah pushes up to sitting. Jonah smells unwashed, like sweat and dirt and mildew. Hallelujah knows she probably smells the same.
    â€œWe’ll get found tomorrow, right?” she asks.
    â€œYeah.” Jonah’s voice is soft but fierce. Like he’s challenging the universe. Challenging God. “We will get found tomorrow.” Because saying it makes it seem true.
    It’s late, and the wind is cold. It’s hours until dawn. Until the sun. They stare into the fire. Their arms are touching, and Hallelujah can feel waves of emotion rolling off Jonah, hitting her.
    Out of nowhere, he says, voice breaking, “I’m sorry.”
    â€œMe too.” And she means it. Before doesn’t matter in this moment. It certainly doesn’t help.
    Jonah pokes at the fire with a stick. His shoulders are hunched. He looks young. He looks vulnerable. He says it again: “I’m sorry.”
    â€œMe too,” Hallelujah repeats. She hesitates for a second, then puts her arm around him, just across his back. It feels both totally wrong and completely right—to be sitting here, now, under an open sky, raw and injured and exposed, to be comforting Jonah, to be apologized to. She doesn’t know if it feels wrong or right to him, because they don’t talk after that. Jonah adds a few more branches to the fire. After a while they lie down, closer this time, careful not to disturb Rachel, whose sleep exhales puff white and frosty in the mountain air.

She remembers talking to God a lot right after everything happened with Luke. She remembers crying and asking why, over and over. Asking for help, for strength, for understanding. Apologizing for what she did wrong. Talking through everything she could have, should have done differently. Begging for the torment to stop .
    She remembers belief and trust slowly turning sour. Still, she kept talking to God out of habit. And because she didn’t have anyone else to talk to. At night, in the dark sanctuary of her bedroom, alone, she could say the things she’d been keeping quiet. But she stopped expecting an answer. Stopped hoping for one .
    After a while, God felt as distant, as uncaring, as everyone else .
    And her prayers faded away .

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    S HE WAKES WITH THE SUN . H ALLELUJAH CAN FEEL IT through her eyelids, in that split second between asleep and awake. She wants to pull the covers over her head. She wishes she had covers.
    She’s stiff. So stiff. Everything hurts. Her left ankle especially, though last night’s angry throb is now just a dull ache. Her hands, meanwhile, feel thick and scaly.
    When she yawns, she feels the dried tears crack on her cheeks.
    Rachel is asleep, mouth open.
    Jonah is squatting by what’s left of their fire. “Morning,” he says softly.
    â€œMorning,” Hallelujah murmurs