The Ruins

The one who stepped into the vines?

Amy spun on him, looking desperate, her hands held out before her, begging. 'Make it stop.'

It's my fault.

Amy pointed at him, her hand shaking. 'You were the one! You know that's true! Not me. I didn't want to come.'

I'm the one, aren't I?

'Make it stop. Will you please make it stop?'

Jeff didn't move, didn't speak; he just stood there staring at her.

The one who stepped into the vines?

The sky was darkening again, but it wasn't the storm. Behind the screen of clouds, the sun was reaching for the horizon. Night was coming, and they'd done nothing to prepare for it. They ought to eat, Jeff knew, and thinking this he remembered the bag of grapes. It wasn't only the drinking; she and the others had helped themselves to the food, too. 'What else did you eat?' he asked.

'Eat?'

'Besides the grapes. Did you steal anything else?'

'We didn't steal the grapes. We were hungry. We-'

'Answer me.'

'Fuck you, Jeff. You're acting like-'

'Just tell me.'

She shook her head. 'You're too hard. Everyone-we're all…We think you're too hard.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

It's my fault.

Amy spun, shouted out toward the vines again. 'Shut up!'

'You've talked about it?' Jeff asked. 'About me?'

'Please,' Amy said. 'Just stop.' She was shaking her head once more, and now he was certain of it; she was crying. 'Can't you stop, honey? Please?' She held out her hand.

Take it, he thought. But he made no move to do this. There was a history here, a well-trod path upon which conflict tended to unfold between them. When they argued, no matter what the topic, Amy would eventually grow upset-she'd weep; she'd retreat-and Jeff, however long he might resist the pull, would end up shuffling forward to soothe her, to pet her, to whisper endearments and assure her of his love. He was always, always, always the one to apologize; it was never Amy, no matter who might be at fault. And this was no different: it was 'Can't you stop?' that she'd been saying, not can't I, or even can't we. Jeff was tired of it-tired at large, tired down into his bones-and he vowed to himself that he wasn't going to do it. Not here, not now. She was the one at fault; she was the one who needed to stop, who needed to step forward and apologize, not him.

At some point, without his noticing the exact moment, the vine had fallen silent.

It would be dark soon. Another five or ten minutes, Jeff guessed, and they'd be blind with it. They ought to have talked things through, ought to have set up a watch schedule, doled out another ration of food and water. Even now, in this final waning of light, they ought to have been up and doing. 'Too hard,' Amy had said. 'We think you're too hard.' He was working to save them, and behind his back they were gossiping, complaining.

Fuck her, Jeff thought. Fuck them all.

He turned away, left Amy standing with her hand held out before her. He stepped to the lean-to, sat down beside it, in the mud, facing Pablo. The Greek's eyes were shut, his mouth hanging partway open. The smell he was giving off was almost unbearable. They ought to move him, Jeff knew, lift him free from that disgusting sleeping bag-sodden and stinking with his body's effusions. They ought to wash him, too, ought to irrigate the seared stumps, flush them free of dirt. They had enough water now; they could afford to do this. But the light was failing even as Jeff thought these things, and he knew they could never do it in the dark. It was Amy's fault, this missed opportunity-Amy's and Stacy's and Eric's. They'd distracted him; they'd wasted his time. And now Pablo would have to wait until morning.

The stumps were still bleeding-not heavily, just a steady ooze-they needed to be washed and then bandaged. There was no gauze, of course, nothing sterile; Jeff would have to dig through the backpacks again, search for a clean shirt, hope that this might suffice. Maybe he could use the sewing kit, too, a needle and thread. He could search out the still-leaking blood vessels and tie them off one by one. And then there was Eric to think of also: Jeff could stitch up the wound in his side. He turned, glanced at Amy. She was still standing in the center of the clearing, motionless; she hadn't even lowered her hand. She was waiting for him to relent. But he wasn't going to do it.

'Tell me you're sorry,' he said.

'Excuse me?' The light was fading enough that it was already difficult to see her expression. He was being a child, he knew. He was as bad as she was. But he couldn't stop.

'Say you're sorry.'

She lowered her hand.

He persisted: 'Say it.'

'Sorry for what?'

'For stealing the water. For getting drunk.'

Amy wiped at her face, a gesture of weariness. She sighed. 'Fine.'

'Fine what?'

'I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

'Come on-'

'Say it, Amy.'

There was a long pause; he could sense her wavering. Then, in something close to a monotone, she gave it to him: 'I'm sorry for stealing the water. I'm sorry for getting drunk.'

Enough, he said to himself. Stop it here. But he didn't. Even as he thought these words, he heard himself begin to speak. 'You don't sound like you mean it.'

'Jesus Christ, Jeff. You can't-'

'Say it like you mean it, or it doesn't count.'

She sighed again, louder this time, almost a scoff. Then she shook her head, turned, walked off toward the far edge of the clearing, where she dropped heavily to the ground. She sat with her back to him, bent into herself, her head in her hands. The light was nearly gone; Jeff felt he could almost see it departing, draining from the air around them. He watched Amy's hunched form as it faded into the shadows, merging with the dark mass of vegetation beyond her. It seemed as if her shoulders were moving. Was she crying? He strained to hear, but the phlegmy rattle of Pablo's breathing obscured all other sounds within the clearing.

Go to her, he said to himself. Do it now. Yet he didn't move. He felt trapped, immobilized. He'd read once how to pick a lock, and he believed that he could do it if he ever needed to. He knew how to break free from the trunk of a car, how to climb out of a well, how to flee a burning building. But none of that helped him here. No, he couldn't think of a way to escape this present situation. He needed Amy to be the one, needed her to be the first to move.

He was certain of it now: she was crying. Rather than softening him, though, this had the opposite effect. She was playing on his sympathies, he decided, manipulating him. All he'd asked of her was that she say she was sorry, say it in a genuine way. Was that such an unreasonable thing? Maybe she wasn't crying; maybe she was shivering, because she must be wet, of course, and cold. As he watched, trying to decide between tears and the shivering, he saw her tilt to her side, lie down in the mud. This, too, ought to have elicited sympathy in him, he knew. But, once again, he felt only anger. If she was wet, if she was cold, why didn't she do something about it? Why didn't she get up and go into the tent, search through one of the backpacks, find herself some dry clothes? Did she need him to tell her to do this? Well, he wasn't going to. If she wanted to lie in the mud, shivering or