“What now?” I whisper, hoarse.
“We sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Yes, you can. You’re exhausted. We both are.”
“I just lost everything.” I sniffle. “What’s the point of sleeping or eating or caring? They’re just going to keep taking things away from us until they kill us! First our cars, our cellphones, our houses. Then our lives. They’re not going to stop.”
“You’re wrong, Cassidy,” Chris replies, his voice even. “They haven’t taken everything from you or me. They haven’t taken us. Who we are. They can’t take our souls, and they can try to kill us and subjugate us, but I sure as hell won’t go down without a fight.”
I take a shaky, painful breath.
“Why fight?” I ask. “They’ll kill us. Just like they killed all those people at the rest stop and in Bakersfield. We’re outnumbered, outgunned, out strategized. We’re screwed and you know it.”
“We’re alive,” Chris answers, taking my face between his hands. “We’re together. We’re a team, and they can’t change that.”
I suck in my breath, trying not to burst into tears again.
“We’re a team?” I echo, tired. “Are you sure about that?”
Chris chuckles. It’s an exhausted but sincere sound.
“I’m sure,” he says, kissing my forehead. “And I’m here for you, no matter what happens. We’re in this together.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, tears running down my face.
“We’re a team,” I tell him, and I mean it. “I trust you.”
It’s true. I do trust him. I can’t think of anybody else who could have gotten me to this point without dying. Only a Navy Seal, I guess. At any rate, maybe I’ll feel differently about things in the morning. Maybe I’ll feel more optimistic. Maybe my dad is alive.
But finding him…how is that supposed to happen?
First rule of the new world: don’t hoard. All of the supplies that my dad and I brought to this cabin have been taken by Omega. Everything. Every drop of water, every flake of dehydrated chicken breast. All we’ve got is what Chris’s mom gave us, and even then it’s a miracle we’ve got anything left.
Apparently, nobody but the big dogs are allowed to have emergency supplies. Makes a lot of sense if you’re trying to subjugate people. What better way than to control the food supply?
Try explaining that to the bottomless pit known as my stomach. I’m hungry.
It’s about eight o’clock at night. We’ve draped heavy blankets over the windows and stuffed rags in all the cracks around the doors. Only then do we light a couple of lanterns. I’m curled up on the loft bed above the kitchen, watching Chris get some food together. He’s making some coffee with our camping stove and heating up some biscuits.
“I’ll cook,” I volunteer, sliding down the ladder.
“Rest, Cassie,” he advises, without turning around. “You’re tired.”
“I don’t want to rest. And I happen to be a biscuit expert.” I sit on the edge of the makeshift counter. “Coffee at night? Really?”
“As soon as the storm settles down we need to get back home,” he replies, placing one hand on each side of me. “Are you up for that?”
No. Just the thought of doing anything right now is sickening.
“Sure,” I lie. “Sounds good.”
He raises his eyebrows, obviously not buying it.
“Coffee’s burning,” I mutter.
He turns around, snatching it off the stove before it scorches.
There are still some dishes left in the cupboard. Stuff from thrift stores that my dad I bought cheaply to bring up here. Fat lot of good it did. Without food or water…or dad…things are kind of pointless.
“Have you cleaned that knife wound?” I ask as he pours the coffee.
He hands me a cup.
“No,” he replies. “I was getting around to it.”
“Better hurry up. The last thing we need is for you to get an infection and die,” I say, trying to smile.
Chris brushes my cheek with the back of his hand and nods. “You’re right.”
He walks to the other side of the cabin — which is only about twenty feet in length — and starts digging through his backpack. I take a sip of the coffee, almost spitting it out. “It’s bitter.”
“Coffee generally is,” Chris laughs, rolling the first aid kit out on the counter. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“Why? Because it’s like a liquid drug? Trying to turn me into an addict?”
“That’s the plan.” Chris pulls of his jacket, revealing the bloodstain on his wool shirt. It’s not as bad as I thought. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m not the addiction type.”
He runs a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile.
“I was talking about the blood, Cassie.”
“Oh. Looks okay.”
He rolls up the shirt enough to get a good view of the cut — and his very nice stomach. It’s not very deep, but nicked enough to get infected if left untreated. Chris looks at me.
“Can you stitch it?” he asks.
I swallow a lump in my throat — I’ve never been good with first aid stitching — and nod. “Sure,” I say. “I need the antiseptic wipes.”
He dumps the first aid kit on the counter and opens his arms out wide.
“Be my guest.”
I find the wipes, the needle, the thread. If you even call it thread. I stifle a shudder and flip open the emergency handbook. There are directions for stitching up a wound. I’ve practiced in the past on a dummy — a routine my dad periodically had me do because, “You just never know when you’re going to get gouged open with a knife.”
Thanks for the tip, dad.
I follow the instructions step by step, holding back a gag as I clean the wound and touch the disconnected piece of skin. So. Gross.
“This is disgusting,” I complain.
Chris just grunts.
I “accidentally” prick him with the needle before starting the stitching. I actually get really close to puking weaving in and out of the flesh, which just makes Chris laugh at me. When I’m done, I close the stiches up like the book says and set down the needle.
“There. You’re a regular ragdoll now.”
Chris inspects my handiwork. It’s a little uneven, but hey. At least I did it.
“Not bad,” he comments. “Thanks.”
He lets his shirt drop and I start cleaning the needle with an antiseptic wipe.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, putting everything back in the kit.
“Nah. You?”
“I didn’t get wounded,” I remind him.
“You know what I mean.”
I shut my mouth, not because I’m speechless, but because if I start to talk I’ll burst into tears. Again. And that’s so not happening. Instead I just shrug and slap the kit closed.
“Cassie, we’ll find him,” Chris says, touching my arm. “We got this far, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, and he wasn’t here.” I turn around, glad he can’t see my eyes watering up in the dim lighting. “Who knows where they took him, Chris? It could be anywhere in the whole country.” I run a hand through my hair and toss the first aid kit across the room. “He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do.”
“There’s always something.”
Chris grabs my hand, pressing it against his chest. He’s warm, and I can feel his heart beating in a steady rhythm under his skin.