Arena One: Slaverunners

“Fever reducers,” he says.

“I feel much better,” I say, with new energy. I reach over and grab his hand and squeeze it tight in appreciation. I know that he has saved my life. Again. I look up at him. “Thank you,” I say earnestly.

He smiles, then suddenly pulls his hand away. I’m not sure how to interpret this. Does he not care for me as much as I think? Did he only do this out of obligation? Does he care for someone else? Did I overstep my boundaries in some way? Or is he just shy? Embarrassed?

I wonder why it bothers me so much, and suddenly it dawns on me: I have feelings for him.

He reaches down and removes something from a backpack.

“They gave us this,” he says.

He pulls out a piece of dried fruit and hands it to me. I take it in awe, feeling a hunger pang already.

“What about you?” I ask.

He shakes his head, as if deferring. But I won’t eat it otherwise. I break mine in half and shove it into his hand. He grudgingly accepts it. I then devour mine, and it is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten. It tastes like cherries.

He smiles as he eats, then reaches into the pack and pulls out two pistols. He hands me one. I study it in awe.

“Fully loaded,” he says.

“They must really hate those slaverunners,” I say.

“They want us to get your sister. And they want us to inflict damage,” he says.

The gun is heavy in my hand; it feels so good to have a weapon again. Finally, I don’t feel defenseless, and I feel as if I have a fighting chance to get her back.

“Next boat leaves at dawn,” he says. “A few hours to go. You up for it?”

“I’ll be on that boat even if I’m a corpse,” I say, and he smiles.

He examines his own gun, and I am suddenly overcome with a desire to know more about him. I don’t want to pry, but he is so silent, so enigmatic. And I am feeling more and more attached to him. I want to know more.

“Where were you going to go?” I ask him. My voice is hoarse, my throat dry, and it comes out more scratchy than I would like.

He looks at me, puzzled.

“If you’d escaped, in the beginning. If you’d taken that boat?”

He looks away and sighs. A long silence follows, and after a while, I wonder if he is going to answer.

“Anywhere,” he finally says, “far away from here.”

I think about that, and I feel that he’s holding something back. I’m not sure why. But I just feel that he’s the type to have a more concrete plan.

“There must be somewhere,” I say. “Some place you had in mind.”

He looks away. Then, after a long silence, reluctantly, he says, “Yes, there was.”

It is clear from his tone that he doesn’t expect to be able to reach it now. After a long pause, I realize he’s not going to volunteer it. I don’t want to pry, but I have to know.

“Where?” I ask.

He looks away, and I can see he doesn’t want to tell me for some reason. I wonder if maybe he still doesn’t trust me. Then, finally, he speaks.

“There’s supposed to be one town left. A safe place, untouched, where everything is perfect. Unlimited food and water. People live there as if there was never a war. Everyone’s healthy. And it’s safe from the world.”

He looks at me.

“That’s where I was going.”

For a moment I wonder if he’s pulling my leg. He must realize that it sounds incredulous-infantile, even. I can’t believe that someone as mature and responsible as him would believe in such a place-or would make a plan to find it, no less.

“Sounds like a place of fairytales,” I say, smiling, half-expecting him to tell me he was just kidding.

But to my surprise, he suddenly scowls down at me.

“I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says, sounding hurt.

I am shocked by his reaction. He really does believe it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought you were joking.”

He looks away, embarrassed. It’s hard for me to even comprehend it: I gave up thinking of anything good still existing in the world long ago. I can’t believe he still clings to this belief. Him, of all people.

“Where is it?” I finally ask. “This town?”

He pauses for a long time, as if debating whether to tell me.

Finally, he says: “It’s in Canada.”

I am speechless.

“I was going to take the boat all the way up the Hudson. Find out for myself.”

I shake my head. “Well, I guess we all have to believe in something,” I say.

The second I say it, I regret it. It comes out too harshly. That’s always been my problem-I never seem able to say the right things. I can be too tough, too critical-just like Dad. When I get nervous, or embarrassed, or afraid to say what I really mean-especially around boys-sometimes it just comes out wrong. What I meant to say was: I think it’s great that you still believe in something. I wish I did, too.

His eyes darken, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment. I want to retract it, but it’s too late. The damage is done. I’ve screwed things up already.

I try to quickly think of something, anything, to change the subject. I’m not good at conversation. I never have been. And it might be too late to salvage it anyway.

“Did you lose anyone?” I ask. “In the war?”

I am such an idiot. What a stupid question. I’ve just gone from bad to worse.

He breathes deeply, slowly, and I feel as if now I’ve really hurt him. He bites his lower lip, and for a moment, it looks like he’s holding back tears.

After an interminable silence, he finally says: “Everyone.”

If I wake up in the morning and he’s gone, I won’t blame him. In fact, I’d be surprised if he sticks around. Clearly, I should just shut up and wait for dawn.

But there’s one more thing I need to know, one thing that’s burning inside. And I just can’t stop myself from mouthing the words:

“Why did you save me?” I ask.

He looks at me with intensity, through red eyes, then slowly looks away. He turns, and I wonder if he’s going to respond at all.

A long silence follows. I hear the wind whistling through the empty windows, the snowflakes landing on the floor. My eyes grow heavy and I’m beginning to fall back asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness. And the last thing I hear, before my eyes close for good, are his words. They are so faint and soft that I’m not even sure if he really says it, or if I just dream it:

“Because you remind me of someone.”

I fall in and out of sleep for the next few hours, partly dreaming and partly flashing back. During one of my episodes, I finally remember what happened on that day we left the city. As much as I’d like to forget, it all comes flooding back to me.

When I found Bree in that alley, surrounded by those boys, and threw the Molotov cocktail-there was a small explosion, and then shrieks filled the air. I managed to hit their ringleader, and the boy lit up in a ball of fire. He ran about, frantic, as the others tried to put him out.

I didn’t wait. In the chaos, I ran right past the flaming boy, and right for Bree. I grabbed her hand and we ran away from them, through the back alleys. They chased us, but we knew those back streets better than anyone. We cut through buildings, in and out of hidden doors, over dumpsters, through fences. Within a few blocks, we’d thoroughly lost them, and made it back to the safety of our apartment building.

It was the last straw. I was determined to leave the city right then and there. It was no longer safe-and if Mom wouldn’t see that, then we’d have to leave without her.