Twenty-two glances over at him, but Wes is too busy glaring at me to notice. “I would never leave you here. We’re staying together.”
“We can’t stop now. They have trackers,” Twenty-two argues. “And infrared. It’s too dangerous.”
Tim keeps his head bent, wincing as I touch his shoulder.
“The trackers won’t work in the woods—there’s no reception.” Wes crosses his arms, his expression still dark. “And infrared only works if they can find us. They’re tracking us with manpower and dogs. We can avoid them, at least for one night.”
The trackers were invented a few years ago—small robotic scanning devices that look like remote-controlled airplanes. They follow movements, smells, and sounds, but like cell phones, they run on wireless technology. Out here in the miles and miles of wilderness, they have no way of transmitting information.
“We’ll stay,” Wes says. “We all need to rest.”
“Who put you in charge?” Twenty-two asks.
“No one.” Wes’s voice is calm, though he does not take his eyes off my hand, still hovering over Tim’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to leave if you want. But I don’t think you should. We have a better chance if we stay together.”
They are hardly words of love, but Twenty-two’s scowl melts away. Without her usual pinched expression she is even prettier, and I turn away from them both, reaching out to help Tim get back to his feet.
The four of us sit in a tense circle on a large patch of deep-green moss. We have no tent to set up and we cannot build a fire—without a roof the smoke would give our position away. The few supplies we took from the barn are spread out in the middle: an empty container for water, a solar- powered flashlight, and a rusted compass.
“We need food,” I say into the silence.
“We have the shotgun.” Tim lifts it up slightly. “We could hunt, though it’s probably too loud.” Ever since Twenty-two pulled the knife on me he has kept a firm grip on it, the bulky weight perched awkwardly in his arms.
“We can try and catch fish.” I point through the trees. “The stream isn’t that far from here.”
“I can fish.” Tim looks over at me and smiles. “I used to do it with my dad.”
Twenty-two straightens, her head snapping up. “You remember your father?”
Wes frowns, glancing between Tim and me as though he’s seeing us both for the first time.
“I’ll go with you,” I say quickly. “I’m not very good with fishing, but I can carry stuff.”
“Great.” Tim doesn’t acknowledge Twenty-two’s shocked expression. “You can be my helper.”
“No,” Wes cuts in. “Twenty-two can go with Thirty-one.”
Twenty-two blinks as though she just stepped out into the sun. “I’m not going to the water.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“I’m just not going.” She keeps her tone even, but I think of three days ago when we first crossed the stream. Twenty-two would not put her feet in the water; she simply jumped from bank to bank. I suggested following it for a while, but she refused, steering us back into the woods.
“Is it the water?” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Are you scared?”
She doesn’t answer.
Wes’s mouth falls open just a bit, his eyes on the mossy ground. When he looks up he says, “Twenty-two will stay here. I’ll go with Thirty-one.”
I do not want to be left alone with her, and I feel the corners of my mouth turn down. Wes sees my expression and stands up, holding out a hand to Twenty-two. She stares at him for a minute before she folds her small fingers into his. They walk away until they’re out of hearing range.
Tim leans back on his arms, his legs stretched out in front of him. “What do you think they’re talking about?”
“Probably plotting our murders.”
“Eleven wouldn’t murder you.” He looks better now that we have rested for a while—his rounded cheeks are pink again and he no longer has sweat trickling down the edge of his hairline.
I pick at the moss in front of me. “I’m not so sure anymore.”
“I am. You don’t stare at a girl like that if you’re thinking of killing her.”
“Maybe it was a killing stare.”
He rolls his eyes.
Wes and Twenty-two bend their heads together, and I see how good they look standing side by side. Her coloring is more olive toned, but they have the same black hair and dark eyes. She is so petite it seems he will fold her into his arms at any moment.
They look comfortable, like they’ve known each other for years. I think of when I first saw her in 1989. Wes acted like they’d never met before, but now I wonder if he was telling the truth.
I keep picking at the moss, squeezing the spongy green between my fingers, pulling it up from the ground and exposing a small bare patch of the rock it grows on.
“It’s the color of your eyes.”
“What?”
“The moss. It’s the color of your eyes.” With another guy I might think he was hitting on me, but Tim says it in that easy way of his, like he’s commenting on the weather.
“Bentley green. It runs in the family.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize what I have just said.
Tim sits up again and rests his hands on his bent knees. “Bentley? That’s your last name?”
“I—”
He grins. “I’m wearing you down. You know it’s only a matter of time before you tell me all of it.”
I stare at the bald spot I’ve made in the gray rock, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Bentley. Like a luxury car. I like it.”
“I picked it out myself.”
He laughs, and I lift my head, startled not just by the sound but by myself—that I would make a joke again, however lame it is.
“Let’s go.” Wes’s voice cuts across the small clearing, and Tim’s laughter dies away. “If it gets too dark the fish won’t bite.”
“I know, I know.” Tim gets to his feet, but then pauses and looks down at me,
