You are here. I hope He hears me. That’s what I’ve been told. You’re always here. Mild comfort arises, but there’s no response. I look up into the bright noon sky. “Are You here?”
Nothing in the scenery changes—no gust of wind, no booming voice, no earthquake. My comfort fades. I lean back on the dirt. Will I ever figure out how to talk to Him? Reid went through so many phases as his relationship with God progressed. He began by praying in old English, then moved to kneeling, then to standing with arms raised. I can’t do any of that. It’s not comfortable. I don’t talk to other people like this, why must I talk to God like this?
Maybe that’s why He’s not listening, because I talk with Him as if he’s a peer. He’s God. Perhaps I should talk to Him differently.
I push myself to a standing position. Almighty God, grant me Your—uh, Thy—presence and protection as I depart. I cringe, both from stretching sores and my stiff request. I feel even more like I’m talking to a tree stump when I word it like this. “Sorry, You know it’s all fake. You’ll have to tolerate my incoherent babbling. Otherwise I’ll never view You as a God I can talk to.”
Upon inspection, my wounds look the same as last night. Though I’m a bit dizzy, I clean some of the dried blood off my stitches. The suture are still numb to the touch. The bandages are warm from hanging by the fires and soothe my injuries as I rewrap them. I’ve used half of Mother’s small pouch of salve. My back wounds are more flexible.
A moment of rest passes. With my eyes closed, I block Hawke’s offer out of my head. Focus. This is my chance to live the adventure bottled in every human’s heart—to be part of something great. To save lives.
I return my belongings to my pack, loop my filled canteen through my belt, and survey the lake. The crackle of my dying fires is the only afternoon noise. A thin bank runs along the edges of the lake, choked by trees in thicker patches. It’s best if I cross to the other side. These wolves need to be left behind.
My pack scrapes against my wounds as I slide it over my shoulders. With a wince, I tighten the straps and adjust my undershirt. I tuck my knife in the belt loop on my skirt and slip my NAB into a pocket on the opposite side. It is bulky, but no more uncomfortable than carrying my Clock around my entire life.
I follow the left border of the lake, toward the hills out of the canyon. The brush is thick and stiff, leaning over the bank. Branches snap instead of bend, rocks spill into the icy water, sent there from my disjointed stumbles.
The lake stretches around a bend in the shore. Rounds of ice float in the middle of its waters. In Unity Village, the ice is long gone by now.
The sun overhead is not as warm as I’m used to. The temperature here resembles late February more than mid-April—another side effect of the towering Wall. My blue watch says it’s already noon.
Ten minutes pass before I reach the end of the lake. I scoop a few handfuls of water from the shadowed icy portion of shore. It tastes a little cleaner. I swish some in my mouth, rubbing my tongue over the film coating my teeth. Why didn’t I bring a toothbrush? A pouch of baking soda for toothpaste? Soap?
Scrubbing with my finger makes little difference. I sigh. Leaving the boiled water in my canteen for later, I start up the hill. My calves burn as I reach a steep incline. I cling to brittle branches to hoist myself up. A bird screeches in the distance with what sounds like a sore throat. I get the feeling it’s yelling at me to leave.
I reach a level portion of hill and stop, gulping for air, before attempting the next incline. My toes are numb and my legs throb. Bandaged or not, my wounds take a beating from the walking and the branches. I shiver from the echo of the fever that held my body captive the past few days. I shouldn’t push myself.
Yes, push! The thought comes from my restless dragon. It’s about time.
The lake rests a hundred feet below me. Across it, some forest, but in the distance the Wall stretches high from the top of the cliff, shadowing the scraggly treetops below as the sun passes over. It’s less organized on this side—lumpy with cracks, vines, and moss crawling like diseases and tumors across its surface. It appears so close, even though I’ve traveled away from it. Are the wolves still at its base?
I take a deep breath and force myself to continue a little longer. I can’t rest yet. I must build my stamina if I expect to find the Independents before I run out of food.
God will help me find them, right? He helped me survive the wolves and He’s promised me the next five months and a handful of days. I don’t understand why. I’ve never given Him much reason to prolong my life.
My thoughts drift back to Hawke. He wanted to rescue me. Maybe he’s a rogue Enforcer. I smile at the thought. What would the government do to him? Smash his Clock? Send him across the Wall? I could use some company.
I shake my head. Silly daydreams.
The incline lessens and I eye my canteen, gauging my thirst. After my recent encounter with dehydration, I’m not anxious to repeat the incident. A tiny sip swished around in my mouth suffices for now, but the swallow torments me.
I devote several minutes to locating a shaded tree for an outhouse. I’m in the middle of nowhere with no sign of human life, but still keep a sharp eye when dropping my britches in the open. A spare wool bandage serves as toilet paper, which I then wrap with the clean remains, swearing to wash it at the first sight of water.
Why didn’t I pack toilet paper? Necessities? I didn’t plan. And now I’m understanding how much I love being clean.
Hours creep by as I trudge. The sun warms a little. I stop in a clearing and let the rays shine on my chilled face. My nose tingles when I scrunch it. I drop my pack on the ground and roll my shoulders. They ache from the small constant weight. My back itches and burns from the pack’s movement against my sores.
Mother’s banana bread is over half gone. My hunger screams, but I limit myself to a single slice. Thank you, God, for the bland density of cornmeal. I’ve never tasted bread made with flour, but it looks so much softer and more airy in the Upper City magazines. Father says people once used wheat in almost every meal—before the Wall, of course. Everything was different when the world was bigger.
I pull out the NAB. Both Skelley Chase’s and Hawke’s name-bubbles sit silent and unmoving. Why do I wish I had a message? They’re both dangerous.
Not bothering with a journal entry, I unroll The Daily Hemisphere. I’m mildly surprised to see the numerous headlines again. Life in the East should have stopped now that I’m not there. Don’t people realize I’m gone?
I look at the first headline I’d skipped earlier, hoping to dispel the forlorn feeling creeping into my heart.
President Garraty Proposes Controversial Law Adjustments.
President Garraty has been a good president as far as I know—complacent and friendly. At least we don’t hate him. Yet I can’t think of anything he’s done. That’s how the public likes it—no extreme changes. Our nation refuses to pursue flexibility. Why should we? We’ve survived this long without it.
I scan the article about the changes. One is placing a comprehensive age for the age-limit restrictions—voting, alcohol, smoking, driving, and processed food.
When Reid and I turned sixteen, Mother and Father threw us a party with chocolate-flavored corn cereal, vanilla pudding, a bubbly drink, and chewy meat rolls called hot dogs. I got sick that night and vowed never to eat processed food again, but when morning came, I returned to the cereal and bubbly drink.
The morning of my Good-bye marked the last day I’d tasted processed food. Did Mother eat the rest after I left? Did she think of me?
I put things away. Chills arrest my muscles. The sunrays have passed out of range and the sky is grey. I loop the buttons on my coat to keep it shut. My eyes grow heavy and a headache throbs. I’m tempted to lie down in this little clearing and sleep, but I’ve made little progress. The Wall is still visible in the distance and I w
ant that stone monster out of my sight.
Time feels different on this side of the Wall. I look at the sleepy sky and then around the forest. Bugs have calmed their buzzing and spiders creep out on the trees. Dinnertime. I glance at my blue watch, unaccustomed to its presence. Spot on: six o’clock.
My salivary glands tingle at the thought of Mother’s corn bread and lamb. Is she finding it hard to cook for two people instead of three? Did Reid stay home or return to Florida? What if he’s not healing as well as we hoped? Does he worry I’m dead? He wouldn’t know if I died.
I sit straight with a jolt. What if he dies and I don’t know it?
In a moment of panic, I pull out my NAB and type a wild message to Skelley Chase.
~Is Reid still alive?
As I watch the screen, my body starts to calm. It wouldn’t matter much if Reid died while I’m in the West. I can’t return until my five months are over. By that point, I’ll be a few days from death myself. Still, I release a breath when Skelley Chase’s reply pops on the screen.
~As far as I know, yes. I’m not your family’s keeper. -SC
I hoist my pack, but drop it from my shoulders as soon as I’ve lifted it up. My back aches. The sores have turned stiff and tender to the touch. I hang the pack over one shoulder instead and leave my clearing as I hear a distant clap of thunder. The sky darkens. Trees turn black as the setting sun steals the color away.
I make it another thirty minutes before exhaustion sets in. Every muscle aches with sickness. How long will it take before I can travel a full day at a regular pace instead of this slow, painful crawl?
Rain droplets splash on my head. Panic rises in my chest. It’s almost dark. What is out here? What is watching me?
My breath fogs my vision and I tug my sleeve over my fingers. Should I start a fire before the rain gets too heavy or will the rain put it out?
The downpour increases and drives me under a wide tree. The branches are bare and thin; in fact, all the trees around me stretch tall like wiry soldiers. Dry cracks crawl up the grey-brown trunks and patches of crisp dried leaves still cling to the tips of the branches, mixing with the small spring buds. They won’t block a single drop.
Dead leaves layer the ground, left over from autumn and rejected by the soil. Short evergreens dot the area, ranging ten to fifteen feet high. I sprint to the nearest one—at least I feel like I’m sprinting; it’s more of a hobble. The rain pounds harder and the wind picks up. Lightning flashes, nearer now, and I spare a prayer it doesn’t strike my tree.
My bandages are dirty, but they’ll have to stay on through the night. I don’t want to change them in the rain. If there’s one thing I know about stitches, it’s to keep them dry as long as possible. My flimsy thread won’t hold my skin together for long.
I stomp down the yellow grass tickling my thighs around the pine tree and lay out my spare shirt on the forest floor, tucking it as far under the prickly branches as possible. The worst that will happen is a little dirt rubbing into the material.
I shove my pack beneath the tree, leaving out a strip of beef to gnaw on until I fall asleep. I peel off my coat and skirt then tuck myself under the tree on top of my extra shirt. Pines are thick, that’s why they always have so many spiders—the rain can’t disturb the webs.
The ground is prickly, but my bandages provide some cushion. I wrap my coat around my torso and spread what’s left of my skirt over the rest of my body. It takes several minutes to convince my legs to bend enough to tuck under the blanket.
I leave my knife and NAB in my skirt pockets in case I need them in the night. The gale increases. I shove the beef in my mouth and tuck my head under my coat, trying to block the sound, increase the warmth, and ward the spiders away from my ears.
Goodnight, God. I don’t know what to pray. I’m not sure if I can force out a ‘thank You’ for anything right now. I’m under a spider tree in a storm. This doesn’t feel like You’re on my side. Did this need to be part of my calling? What is my calling again?
The only response is silence.
17
000.168.07.00.55
I spend two days under the spider tree, curled in a stiff ball as the rain pours down. I cry some because I’m cold. Then I cry because I hate that I’m crying. I don’t touch the sentra for fear that it might sense some of my despair and send it to Skelley Chase.
Wafting in and out. Fever. Delirium. Sickened sleep. My sores throb, but I don’t change the bandages. My appetite is gone—maybe from sickness, maybe from prolonged hunger.
When morning dawns the third day on a clear, stormless sky, I drag my aching form out from under the branches. My damp clothes stick to my skin. My hair snags on pine needles. Hollowness eats the core of my body.
I manage to stand and look around at the wet forest. The rain shines on the leaves and everything looks greener. The next several minutes I stretch as best I can, then I leave this portion of forest, dragging my pack along the forest floor. Ten minutes pass before I can lift it onto my shoulders. One hour. Just one hour before I allow a rest.
My stomach shrivels with every foodless step. Reid’s scolding voice drifts through my mind: “You’re getting too thin. You need to eat.”
I force a corner of banana bread into my mouth. The muscles in my throat spasm. It takes four tries to swallow.
The terrain continues upward. I stop several times to catch my breath, and heave a sigh when the land levels out. After forty-five minutes, I sink to the damp forest floor and let the chilled sunrays hit my face. The branches above are thinner. Tiny flowers mix with the green buds and leaves. It’s spring in the West.
I pull The Daily Hemisphere from my pack. Nothing about me yet. I let out another breath. Reid is still safe.
The other headlines don’t earn a single blink. Now that I’m not in the East, I don’t care so much about what’s happening over there. I won’t live there again until the week of my death. What does it matter?
I reach deeper in my pack for the NAB’s leather cover. My hand searches through tangled coils of rope until it finds the nanobook. It feels thicker. I pull it out. It’s not my NAB, but my Bible. An instant pang hits me. I haven’t opened my Bible during this entire week in the West.
A week? Really? I look at the blue watch. Sure enough. Thanks to the delirium and fever, six whole days disappeared from my Clock in what feels like the course of two. Panic flutters across my heart. How many weeks do I have left? I’ve done nothing meaningful yet. I need to find the Independents. They’ll provide insight. Guidance . . . .
Something.
God? Are You there? Does He even listen? My prayers feel like a pious form of talking to myself.
I open the Bible and let it flop to an open page. I scan the page for divine guidance, but all I see are a hundred repetitions of the word begat surrounded by names I can’t pronounce. I flip a chunk of pages to the right and stop when I hit what resembles a poem. It starts with, “Pray then like this:”
Wow, coincidence?
When I start reading, I hear Reid’s voice in my mind: “Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be Your name.”
I’ve heard Reid pray this so many times before, but never focused on what it meant. Is it truly instruction on how to talk to God?
“Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be Your name.” What does hallowed even mean? Farther down in the poem there’s mention of bread. “Give us this day our daily bread.”
Mother’s banana bread is almost gone. Maybe God will make the last slice regenerate every time I look away.
I read the five verses three times, repeating them in my head, and they stick like honey. For once, I’m proud of my memory. My peers used to say normal people don’t remember words like I do. They called me a freak. Reid told me they were jealous, but I think they were snobs with a higher income. They had access to paper and didn’t have to memorize.
Even with the verses now in my head, I don’t like the formality of the prayer—I never have. Hallowed makes me think of Halloween.
I reword the passage and mutter it aloud. “God, help me figure You out. Do with me what You will, please give me food, keep me safe, and forgive me for whatever I’ve done wrong.”
As I finish, I think of the Newtons and cringe. Regret sinks even lower knowing my punishment for helping them would have been exile across the Wall. I’d be in the same position I’m in—but they might be alive.
I shove the Bible back into the pack and locate the NAB in my pocket. Skelley Chase’s message bubble pulsates with three new messages:
~Are you still alive? -SC
~Send me an emotigraph. -SC
~Are you dead? -SC
I respond with a terse, ~I’m alive, but sick. I think from wolf bites. I follow this with my emotigraph from the cave. Time for a journal update.
4.22.2149 – 08:20
Slept under a spider-infested, short pine tree for two days through freezing storm. Sick, tired, and very very cold. Can’t believe a whole week has passed already.
I send it to him at the same time I receive another message.
~I’m relieved to see you alive, Parvin. I knew you had the perseverance to survive. It’s admirable. -SC
His niceness reminds me of his deception. Unsure how to respond, I close the NAB. Hawke’s bubble remains still. I want to send him a message, to ask if he has any other ways to help me. But how can he?
In the containment center he pulled me away from Skelley Chase and the other Enforcers. He fought for me. Was his compassion for me or for the Newtons? I hope it was for me. I can’t get his face out of my mind. He cared so much.
I abandon my hesitation and press his bubble. Hawke and I are separated by a number of walls—literal rock and stone, status, the law. It’s doubtful I’ll see him again. Why care if I overstep any bounds by contacting him? I’ve already overstepped too many legal bounds to ever warrant the title innocent again.