Bree carved his crutches in the downtime between her obligations, perfecting their shape, smoothing and sanding. When she wasn’t working on the crutches or her other duties, she was teaching Ness to fish. The girl taught Bree to mend a wardrobe properly in return. Ness could make rips and tears vanish, their scars barely visible. If a spear was an extension of Bree’s arm, a needle was the same for Ness.
By the time Heath was ready for the crutches, summer had faded into fall. By the time he’d relearned how to walk with them, the first frost-tinged mornings of winter were upon Saltwater. With the arrival of December, Bree’s fishing lessons with Ness came to an abrupt halt. The water was frigid and the loons had fled. Bree missed them fiercely. The birds had seemed so sad on the night of Lock’s funeral, but now the days were short, and the nights had never seemed more empty. Even a bittersweet song would have been a comfort.
On the evening before what could potentially be her last, Kent found Bree on the jetty, watching the stars fight to reveal themselves amid the season’s first flurries.
“I never should have said that stuff about Lock,” he said. “That day on the beach.”
“Feeling guilty now that your own birthday’s just days off?”
“Look who’s talking.”
Bree shrugged and said nothing. A small part of her was even excited. If she were Snatched, maybe she could see Heath again in the future. Or Wren and Cora and every other girl who had once been stolen away. Assuming it even worked like that. Regardless, it was better than living her whole life trapped on Saltwater, only to die alone.
Kent took a seat beside her. He had a brooding face, like his features were stuck in a permanent state of regret. Bree watched him wring his hands together and set his stocky shoulders toward the horizon.
“I always thought you were pretty,” he said. “I wanted to tell you for forever, but you only saw Lock, and then as soon as he was gone I went and said the dumbest thing possible—gave you a reason to hate me.” He paused. “I still think you’re pretty, you know. Even if you scowl all the time.”
Bree almost laughed.
“Hey, do you have any regrets? Anything you didn’t do during your time here?”
“Even if the answer was yes, it would be none of your business,” Bree said, drawing her jacket tighter.
“You’re scowling again.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Have you ever . . .” He raised his brows. “You know?”
“Know what?”
“Been with someone?”
“Dammit, Kent, I’m not talking about this with you.”
“I . . . I just thought if you hadn’t . . . if we were both going to die—be Snatched—that maybe—”
“Stop it,” Bree said. “First, there’s no proof that a Snatching means you die. Second, you don’t want to be with me. You think you do, but you don’t. You want to be with someone who wants you back. Someone who makes you better. Someone who challenges you and sees you and gives you as much as you give them. It works two ways.”
“I don’t care how it works. I—”
“Kent, I’m going home now. Thank you for apologizing about Lock. I’ll see you tomorrow, and if I end up Snatched, maybe I’ll see you somewhere else, too. In time.”
She left before a reaction could register on his face.
That night, Bree slept in Heath’s bed, the boy wrapped in her arms and his head tucked beneath her chin. In the morning, he woke first, and nudged her with a bony elbow.
“Go back to sleep,” she muttered. “The sun’s not even up.”
Heath went on prodding her until she retaliated. He suffered a few good jabs in return, but he’d won. Bree was awake now.
“Happy birthday,” he said.
“My birthday’s tomorrow, bug,” she said.
“But I might not get to say it tomorrow. You could be Snatched.” He sat up, using his arms to aid in the process. He was still getting used to the missing muscle on his left side, the new, unbalanced state of his body. “No matter what, I’ll see you again someday. I really think that’s how it works.”
Bree just nodded.
They spent the day doing nothing of importance. They sat around the fire and drank hot tea. They went for a walk through the town, which was dusted with a thin layer of white. Heath was good on his crutches now, but the snow made him clumsy. Bree laughed when he fell, and when she refused to help him up, he called her a word he’d most certainly learned from Lock. Heath managed in the end—awkwardly bracing his weight against the crutches until he pulled himself upright. He tossed another swear Bree’s way but she smiled. He could manage without her, and that was all she’d been testing.
Chelsea brought food back from the bonfire that night and the three of them had a private meal. No one said much, but what really remained to be said? Besides, Chelsea was present, looking at Heath instead of through him, and Bree knew everything would be fine in her absence.
Later, when the town was sleeping, Bree wandered to the jetty. It was here that it always happened, a private occurrence without spectators. The brave would wait. The desperate would chase the horizon. And the people of Saltwater did not interfere.
Against her island’s traditions, Bree witnessed a Snatching for the first and only time at the age of seven. She’d wanted to see what had happened to her father—not just hear a vague recount of the phenomenon—and it had been terrifying. The roaring wind, the blinding light, the thrashing ocean. A dark shadow had taken the trembling boy.
And now she was on that same jetty—her harbor, her port—facing an uncertain future.
The horizon was barely discernible from where she stood. The star-strewn sky met the water like an old friend, bleeding into one. Waves crashed around her, a familiar song Bree was suddenly terrified she’d miss. Her thoughts drifted to Lock. She couldn’t change whatever was coming—if it even was coming—but she understood him clearly now. The nerves and fears, the overwhelming sense of helplessness that threatened to drown. The difference was that she wouldn’t run.
There were pieces of her that no force could take away. No matter where she might find herself tomorrow, she had the stars as her confidants. And if she lost the sky, she had her hands. She had calluses from spears and the means to whistle to loons. And even if those were stolen she had memories of Lock and Heath and herons and hope and all the things that mattered. They were hers, and nothing could take them from her.
When the night sky went ablaze, Bree didn’t flinch. She didn’t tremble or cringe or cower in fear. She greeted it like an equal.
She might have even smiled.
After
THIRTEEN
HER WORLD WAS LARGE NOW. Frightening large. And so much more complex than she ever could have imagined.
She’d read the truth in a series of leather-bound journals, equal parts appalled (at the lies she’d been fed in Taem) and amused (at the minor discrepancies in the captured notes). Saltwater had no Wall—the ocean was a mighty guardian—but it had been watched. Just like the other test groups. She, like so many, was another victim of the Laicos Project.
Those journals had lit a fire beneath Bree, a need to right wrongs. She’d picked up a firearm eagerly, shocked—if not a little bit startled—to find it as comfortable as a spear in her grasp.
Her hands were the only things to get her through those first few months. She whistled into them almost obsessively, a loon call reminding her that she was still Bree from Saltwater. Bree, Bree, Bree. The same girl, despite how much of her life had dissolved like a crashing wave.
She peered at her mark through the binoculars. The boy was still dragging his brother—at least, she assumed they were related. They looked identical. Especially in those horrible Order uniforms.