“Come on.”
“No—” I turned around to face him.
The stranger was having none of this. He swung around and picked me up by my waist like a parent removing an irate child having a hissy fit in a toy store. I kicked the man, but he did not let go.
I had to make this stranger understand.
“He’ll kill them!” I said, and I shivered because I remembered that with Bollard, there was something worse than death. He’d hurt them and Doc… Doc! I kicked at the man even harder because the thought of seeing Doc empty on the floor was too much. I had to save Doc. I kicked and kicked. I was a gnat knocking into a mountain. The man rushed us through the garden as if my kicks were taps from a foam bat.
“Let me go! I’ve got to save everyone.” I’d made a mistake. Bollard would hurt all of them. “Help!” I cried, but everyone was asleep. It was the afternoon in Boston all over again, and this guy was probably there to kill me. “Help!”
I kept calling for help until we reached the far end of the garden, where the man finally stopped and released me. When I bolted back toward the house, he grabbed me again. “Stop fighting me and listen.”
“No, help!”
“Listen, listen. They can leave anytime they want. This is your only chance at getting out of here.”
“No, Doc can’t. Hincho, Naugle can’t. Wilbur. None of them can. They’re in danger.”
While the man dragged me back to the rocky wall, he reasoned with me. “They can, but they won’t ever let you leave. You’re the one in danger. Come on.”
“But Bollard—”
“Will wake up and what then?” Over the man’s head, I swore I saw the faint shadow of a bird. Last night still fresh in my mind, I stopped fighting. He was right. I had to get out of there.
The man carried me along the cliff until we came to a small tunnel.
“Are you going to run back?”
“No, you can let me go.”
He finally released me and said, “Follow me.”
The tunnel was so low he had to crawl. My knees hit the hard rock, and I entered the tunnel. The foundation only went in a few feet before the ground was thick, pasty mud which clung to my slippers, housecoat, and pjs. Water dripped from lighted drains overhead.
“What is this place?” I asked and mentally begged, Please don’t say sewer. Please don’t say sewer.
“Drainage pipes from under the city.”
That wasn’t much better.
My crawl was slow. My knees scraped along random twigs. My fingers dug into the wet leaves and discarded paper cups. My toes clung to my drenched, mud-covered slippers.
The stranger, unfazed by it all, dashed down the tunnels, often waiting for me to catch up. I crawled carefully and deliberately through the muck, dodging broken bottles, random rebar, and abandoned umbrellas.
All was well— as well as a drainage pipe crawl could go—until the tunnel shifted left suddenly and a tree root jutted from the metal side and snagged my bag.
“Come on,” the man said. “Not much further.”
Stuck, I had to slop off my bag. I shimmied the strap from my shoulder, and the entire contents spilled into the mud. I scrambled to get my underwear.
“Come on!” he yelled again, but underwear overflowed from my hands, and I had no pockets to shove them in. Out of options, I slipped my mud-covered unmentionables onto my wrists a la bracelet style. The man checked back. “You okay?”
“Yes.” My voice echoed in the tunnel. From up ahead came the scrape of metal moving over metal. Although I couldn’t see, it had to be a door. We were almost out. I was close to being out of there. I had to keep crawling on.
The tunnel ended unexpectedly, and I tumbled into water. I didn’t dare open my eyes, but I couldn’t find up or down, and I struggled in my search for either ground or air. Finally, a hand grabbed my housecoat and forced me to the surface.
Water sputtered from my mouth. I was close to vomiting. My nose drained down my face. I used the back of my hand to clear my eyes, then my nose. Finally, I could see. I was in waist-deep water. In the distance, the lights of the city sparkled against the predawn sky.
The man left me where I stood. From behind a fallen tree, he dragged a green canoe to the water. Exhausted, I moved in slow motion toward it. I lifted my leg over the side and nearly toppled it. I attempted once more before the frustrated man picked me up and dropped me on the back seat.
He took the front and handed me a paddle. Seconds later, he was paddling up river. Of course, we had to go against the current. I was so tired, but I had to help. The man grunted as his paddle made waves against the water. My paddling created little ripples.
Tired and wet, I pulled the paddle through the water. Not one white spot remained on my slippers. They were all mud. I wanted to throw them away, but this was what I had. The edges of the tunnel had ripped open the knees of my pajamas, and they stuck to my chest, stomach, and legs. My wet house coat felt like fifty cold pounds of weight sitting on my body. Even with the summer heat and after endless rowing, cold goosebumps covered my skin. My sides stitched in pain and my heart pounded in my chest. The agony of rowing was blinding as my arms spasmed. To my credit, even in pain, I continued paddling.
Time went in a blink. I couldn’t tell how far we traveled; I only hoped it was far enough. When the sun rose over the trees, I guessed the palace had to be awake. The Merrics would be angry, terrifying. The small river had quadrupled in
