in piecesI HEAR THE SONG LIKE the birds high up in the branches of our tree in Greenwood. I turn toward the sound, trying to imagine it’s a cool blanket, one that’ll put out the simmering heat trapped inside my head and leg. I’m not surprised, not in the least, when I open my eyes and see Lucas.
Just…muddled.
I think I’m in the Infirmary. I know these are nurses, I recognize their calm, kind voices, but it doesn’t—it doesn’t make sense, the things he’s saying. They’re all talking so fast. Medicine, Mia, sparks, out…I try to watch his lips move, read the expression on his face, but he’s wearing that mask again. The Lucas I know disappears behind it as I lose my grip on his hand and he rises to his feet, shucking off his crimson vest, his uniform. The female nurse hands him a pair of gray scrubs as the man starts unhooking the machines. Fever and pain have turned my vision glassy at the edges, and the things hanging near me, things that have only been blurs up until now, are set on my stomach. I have to strain my ears, fight the black water rushing over me, to stay at the surface and listen to their low conversation.
“—bring one of the crates over—”
“—be fast—”
Footsteps, doors opening, doors shutting, doors opening, problems—
“—too small, can’t do both of you—”
Lucas sounds the strongest, the calmest. “Then I need a PSF uniform. I’ll pose as one of the escorts. It might even be easier that way.”
“They don’t have those just laying around!”
“I can get one,” Lucas says. “Do you have any zip ties? I’ll need one of you to lock an office after I’m done…”
They go away long enough that I drift back down into the haze of pain and don’t surface again until I feel hands on me.
“No, this isn’t—stop…” I try to get my lips around the words but they come out sounding slurred, blending together. When I open my eyes again, I see a black uniform, red Psi stitched over the heart, and try to twist away.
“It’s me.” It’s Lucas above me, blocking out the lights overhead. I can’t see his face. I want to see his face. “You’re okay, Sammy.”
He eases his arms under my shoulders and legs. He’s so warm that I forget. I can’t think of what this means until he says, quietly, “We’re getting out.”
No.
NO.
He doesn’t know. He hasn’t been here long enough to have seen it—they kill kids who escape. They shoot them. I remember every single shot, the way the single crack of thunder would roll through an otherwise silent camp and we would all just know.
“No—Lucas—”
No matter how gently he lowers me into…the crate, I think, it still jars my leg and sends a stabbing pain racing up through it. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, Sammy,” he’s breathing the words out, carefully arranging me so I’m flat on my back, my entire right side throbbing. I don’t want to think it let alone say it, but it’s shaped long and shallow, like a coffin.
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