“That’s a good start,” Alexander says, looking at my progress.
I use my fingers to spell out T.I.M.E in the sand. He looks at it questioningly and then says, “You’ve been out since around noon, so it’s been about 6 hours. Mio’s hoping by tomorrow morning you’ll be able to walk around.” He pauses and shuffles around in his backpack, and I realize I must have pictured us all with them on when we were getting assigned boats. I remember using that memory to go through everyone who is here with us so I didn’t forget anybody.
“This is all I really saved,” he says, pulling out a small handful of berries. “You need them the most.” Slowly, I’m able to chew the berries. “I’m not letting you go, okay?” his voice sounds small and weak.
I urge myself to tell him I’m going to be okay, but the more I push the more tired I get. I begin to get pulled back to sleep. The black specs start to fill my vision, and I yell at myself over and over again to stay awake.
“Stay,” I hear my voice croak out.
Somewhere in the dark distance, I hear Alexander’s voice say, “Always.” And that’s the last thing I recall before I’m pulled back under.
When I wake again my vision is filled with darkness. I feel my fingers grip the sandy dirt as my heart quickens at the thought of being permanently blind. Carefully I push myself up onto my elbows and am relieved when I see glints of a fire in front of me. I look down to my left and see Alexander sleeping. It must be late at night because I can’t make out anyone else moving around. Many people lay near the fire, but I assume Alexander refused to leave my side. I think Mio’s dark figure sits against a tree down by the coast.
I stretch out my arms and am happy I’m able to move them again. I try to bend my legs, but find that they still can’t move. I use my arms and pull my knees to my chest to stretch them out. I can’t help but feel worry rise inside me at my limp legs. I have to keep reminding myself that it will get better. I will be all right.
I see Alexander’s water bottle lying where he left it this afternoon. I sip on some of the water and debate about trying to force myself to try and stand or just go back to sleep. My mind tells me I really should try to sleep through the rest of the night, even though I’m not a bit tired. I lay back down next to Alexander and my mind plays out what little I know about the situation we are in now. Our boats were destroyed and I brought us to this deserted island that has no source of food. I’m not even sure they have found drinkable water yet. At the end of all these thoughts is one reoccurring regret. I never should have destroyed my mother’s journal. She would have been able to warn us about the creatures. She may have known what I need to do now to help get my group to Libertas. She could have at least told me she loved me. Tears weld my eyes, and eventually I fall back to sleep with a hurting chest.
My mother comes into view. Brown and warm yellow hues start to paint themselves into a familiar picture. She’s sitting in an old wooden chair. The rest of the room starts to fold into view, and I recognize it as my kitchen. My small little home on the edge of Garth. I spin around the room confused how I can be here seven years later. The door to my left creaks open and I watch nine-year-old me walk into the kitchen. I take a seat in the wooden chair across from my mother and see she is holding Titus in her arms. This is the night the guards came to get us.
“Is father home yet?” my little self asks her in a soft voice.
“Adaline, it’s been three months. Your father isn’t coming home,” my mother says with no emotion in her voice.
I watch my younger self trace the circles on the wooden dining table. I miss that table. “Sometimes I think that’s what you do in the middle of the night. You just sit up and wait for him.” Little me pauses and a wall of silence settles between us, and young Adaline adds, “I wait up for him too.”
“Well you shouldn’t,” I hear my mother say shortly. “And trust me, Adaline, I’m not waiting for him.” She’s about to get up from the table and take Titus to her room. I remember this night so clearly. I have to warn them, they need to run.
“Mother!” I say to her, but she doesn’t hear me. She stands and turns to go into her room. I run in front of her and yell, “Stop! The guards are coming. Mother, they’re coming! We have to leave, please. Please leave tonight, don’t let them take us.”
For a moment I think she sees me. Her blue eyes look at mine. She knows. I can see it on her face now. She knew they were coming. She wasn’t waiting up for my father to come home, she was waiting up to see if tonight was the night the guards would come for us.
She walks right through me, and into her bedroom to lay Titus back down. Then she comes back to the kitchen to get younger me and leads her back to my room.
“You can’t do this,” I say to her and follow her into my room. The floorboards squeak under my feet. The same little floorboard at the edge of my bed. It always squeaked. I used to hide
