He laughs. “No on both counts, kid.”
At first I’m like, Yeah, he’s right, I’d remember a dude like him, but the second he calls me “kid,” the feeling hits me stronger than ever. I try to find the connection but my head is throbbing, making thinking impossible. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re in the middle of a river, I’m gushing blood all over the place, and maybe the tide is changing and this little island won’t be here an hour from now. “Look. I’m a little freaked out. I don’t know where I am or where my friends are. You wouldn’t happen to have a boat, would you?” I ask.
He grins at me, a slow grin. Why does he do everything slowly? And of course he doesn’t have a boat. He doesn’t even have shoes.
All right. Think think think. “How did you even get here, if you don’t have a boat?” But I already know the answer. I echo him as he says, “I’m a powerful good swimmer.”
He grins, and that’s my cue to freak out. How did I know that?
“So, wait. I do know you?”
He shakes his head. “Listen, kid, you’re wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. Relax for a minute.”
“Relax!” I start, but then I stop. No, I don’t know him, of course; I just hit my head or something and I’m not thinking straight.
He leans back, digging his palms in the dirt behind him. He’s tall, like Justin; he stretches out with his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, and his feet touch the water. Unlike me, he doesn’t recoil from the cold of the river. I notice that his toes are a rather pleasing shade of brown. He has a tan. How can a guy in Maine in May have a tan? He doesn’t look like the type to frequent tanning salons; he looks more like Justin in that regard. The manly-man type. But even the manliest of men can end up utterly screwed by nature. Rule number one: Nature always kicks ass.
“Um, look. I can’t relax. You may be a powerful good swimmer, but I’m not. I’m hurt, and freezing, and I’m sure my friends are looking for me, so I need to get back to them. Can you help me?”
“Sure thing.” Then he grimaces. I look down and for the first time I notice he’s holding his arm, limp in front of him.
The blood is all over his hand. My blood? I lean forward. No, there’s a massive gash on the top of his forearm, stretching almost from his elbow to his wrist bone. It’s deep, too; the blood is a dark, thick purple. I gasp. “Oh my God.”
He laughs at me. “It’s nothing. Old war wound.”
He’s off his rocker. It’s fresh. And it’s bleeding everywhere. “No, you need …” I look around but there’s no spare fabric anywhere, and I can’t very well ask him to remove his worn shirt, since it’s probably as thin as paper. Grimacing, I reach down and pull off my water shoes, then remove the outer layer of socks. They’re damp, but they’ll have to do. I wrap the first sock around his arm as a tourniquet. It’s tough to tie because he happens to be kind of muscular there. Then I clamp the other one over the cut. It’s instantly saturated. “We’ve got to get you help.”
He looks at my handiwork. “Thanks, kid. But it’s just fine.”
It’s really not just fine. We’re both bleeding. We’ll probably die here in a puddle of our own blood. “How did you do that, anyway?”
He shrugs. “Don’t remember. Jumping in the water, I guess.”
“To save me? You pulled me out?”
He stares at his arm. “That I did, but … I don’t …” He looks confused, sad. “I don’t remember lots of things.”
“Well, thank you,” I say. My sock is now dripping with blood. Little crimson drops begin to puddle on the sand. “Oh God. That’s really bad. Are you sure you’re okay?”
He laughs. “Unwind, girl. You want to see bad, you should have seen your back.”
“What?” I shriek. Is it possible my wound is as bad? Um, worse? All this time I’ve been sitting here, I’d almost forgotten about it. It didn’t even hurt much. I crane to see my injury, but I can’t make out anything. In fact, I can’t even feel it anymore.
He’s still laughing.
I glare at him. “It’s not that horrible, is it? You were joking? Don’t. Do. That. You freaked me out. I thought I was dying.”
“Unwind, girl. You need to—”
Suddenly thunder begins to rumble in the distance, and I realize that the clouds are black and heavy with rain. Across the river, a thin mist has crawled in, sliding between the trees. My eyes are drawn toward the right bank, where a figure stands, half hidden by the pines. I squint to see, but my head throbs as my eyes struggle to focus in the thickening fog. It’s a large guy, like Justin, but I already know it’s not him. Justin would be trying to find a way to help me. This person is standing still, and it would almost be like a fragment of a photograph if his eyes weren’t trained right on us.
I feel a hand slide into mine, fingers lacing with my own. Next to me, the boy swallows. He’s lost some of his tan. Since he obviously enjoys cold weather, I’d expected his hands to be warm, like Justin’s. But they’re cold, like stone. Unlike stone, though, his fingers quiver slightly. There’s something wrong.
“Who is that?” I whisper.
He sits up, then pulls me to my feet so fast that I gasp in surprise. I’m stunned because it’s the first thing he’s done quickly. That easy smile is gone. I open my mouth to say “Well, now who’s wound up?” but he speaks first, his words clipped and emotionless. “Nobody. Let’s get you out of here. And, Kiandra—”
He grabs hold of my wrist and looks at me with intent, dark eyes. I want to ask him to let me go, I want to ask him how he knows my name, I want to ask him so many things, but the force of his eyes on me has rendered me speechless. Instead, I just nod, under this strange, dizzying spell.
“You have to go home. And don’t you ever come back. It’s too dangerous.”
Whispers again. Just fragments of speech. This time I know they’re senseless, so I don’t bother to listen.
My eyelids sting as I push my eyes open. The sky again, gray and somber. Pine branches above, dulled in the fog. The mist is thicker now, borderline drizzle. My eyelashes are wet.
I feel for my limbs, wiggling my fingers and toes. My fingers ache from the cold, and my feet, in scratchy wool socks, ache, too. My face burns as if from a thousand needle pricks. I sit up, the same familiar pain slamming against my forehead, expecting to see the river on both sides of me. But I’m on the bank.
I turn around, but I’m alone. The boy who saved me is gone, but his voice is ringing in my ears: Don’t you ever come back. It’s too dangerous. What the … Who the heck was he? Hot as hell, but reminding me so eerily of my dad. Great combination.
I struggle to my numb feet and climb the bank, looking for him, for some sign of him, but there is nothing. It was a dream. It has to have been a dream. But all the while, I feel the pressure of his fingers on my back, and I can still hear his voice in my head—it makes me shiver.
No, it was just a dream. Normal people can have very realistic dreams, and that’s all it was.
I climb a little farther, and just as I begin to wonder how I’m going to get back to camp, which must be miles downriver, I see a sign in the brush. I stumble over to it on my useless legs and read: NORTHEAST OUTFITTERS. There’s an arrow pointing down a path, and the familiar rich wood of the cabin peeks from among the pines.
I want to cry from the beauty of it. I want to fall to my knees and thank the heavens. But I also want to be warm, and my legs must want that, too, because before I know what I’m doing, I’ve broken into a run. I racewalk, limping slightly because I can’t feel much of my feet, toward the log building, throw open the doors, and burst into the Outfitters, gasping in relief as the heat rushes to my face. It stings my skin, but it’s a welcome sting. The only thing better would be a nice, hot shower.
Angela and Hugo are sitting on the big leather sofa, nursing mugs of coffee. A fire roars in the fireplace, and I can already feel its heat. She jumps up when she sees me. “Oh my God, sweetie! Are you okay?”