***
Jonas is bristling. His back is turned to me, but I can sense every nerve is charged. Every muscle in his shoulders is taught. "She's going to get herself killed," he growls.
I keep quiet, and look at the warehouse's ancient concrete floor. Dark, and grey, and tired, and cold. A metaphor for everything, these days.
"It makes no sense," he continues. "Why would she do this? Why would she betray us like this?"
Why wouldn't she, I'm thinking, still staring at the floor. He's just used to her following him everywhere like a stray dog.
Now he turns and looks at me. His boots have clots of mud sticking out the sides from under his heels. "Eden," he says, more softly.
I close my eyes and shake my head.
He walks over to the cot and sits down next to me, turning his body toward me. I open my eyes but only see his lap, his leg crossed over his knee. His boot is pointing at me now. I reach out and flick a chunk of mud off of it, then look him in the eyes.
My voice is tired, wavering, slow, but strong. "The things you are willing to do..."
His eyelids come down part way over eyes full of an intense gaze. He leans toward me. His voice is low and even. "I am willing to do a lot of things you probably won't like," he says. "Whatever it takes. That's how we survive."
It's hard to argue with survival as the ultimate goal. But I find myself looking away. My shoulders slump. Again, I feel so tired.
He sets his hand on my knee. "Eden," he says again. His voice sounds so soft when he says my name. Like a lullaby. Like dying.
I blink and look at his face. His eyes are scanning mine, looking for something. For a sign I, too, won't betray him?
"I need you with me," he says. His voice is barely more than a whisper. "I really need you."
I close my eyes, a long sigh draining from me like blood sinking into the earth. I don't want to think about this. All I manage in reply is, "Oscar. I can't be involved in this. It's not safe for Oscar."
His brow furrows, emotion playing across his face as quickly as a summer rainstorm. He shakes his head a little bit, then stops. He purses his lips. All the while, he's looking at me, like he's going to say something, but nothing ever comes out.
Eventually I grow tired of waiting. "I have to go," I say, getting to my feet. He looks up at me warily. I feel bad for him. He seems so lost. I try to drum up some words to reassure him, to ease his fears. Something meaningful. Something inspiring. All I manage is, "Don't worry. Miranda wouldn't sell you out. She won't say anything."
He nods, looking down at that concrete floor.
I turn, and walk away.