Holden
“Are you sure?” Dr. Maidei Chari asked. She sat opposite Holden and Angel in the coffee shop, clutching a macchiato in a worn porcelain cup. Concern lined her face, like she was on the brink of believing them, or already did.
“Of course I’m not sure,” Holden responded in an injured hiss. Her concern was betrayal.
“Holden wants you to knock some sense into him,” Angel interjected. “Explain all this so we can both move on with our mediocre lives.”
Dr. Chari’s dark eyes flitted back and forth between the two of them before she took a sip of coffee and stared out the window. It was a blistering day, the café lobby bright and full of weeping plants. The atmosphere oddly coincided with Holden’s anxiety.
Chari returned her attention to them. “I can’t give you a reasonable explanation. The ranger wouldn’t tell you an incorrect date on purpose unless he was mistaken.”
Holden loosened his grip on his coffee glass before he broke it. “That doesn’t explain the audio files.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Chari conceded, as though Holden was pointing out that the sky was blue. “What did you say to the ranger, exactly?”
“I didn’t tell him I received a message from the future, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Holden told him our team intercepted a distress signal.” Angel slurped her iced drink. “Which sounds about as believable as a message from the future.”
“They said they’d look into it,” Holden finished.
Chari frowned. “That’s not promising. I know how bureaucracy operates.”
“Yeah, so do I. We both work at a university, remember?” Every bit of evidence Holden had to convince authorities that Dupont’s team actually needed rescuing would only spark more questions. More questions meant more time, and they had none to spare. “What can we do?”
“You already did it. You reported what you knew.” Maidei raised her mug to her lips in such apathy that Holden repressed the urge to flip the table.
“It isn’t enough if nothing is done. This is someone’s life!”
“Lives, plural. Four, to be exact,” Angel said. “According to Siena’s files, Isaac died—or he dies, whatever—but we have no evidence the other three make it out.”
Angel may have invited herself into this mess, but Holden felt less delirious with her here. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone took him so seriously. And that was saying a lot, because she was, well, Angel.
“Then you need to convince the ranger that they truly are in danger,” Maidei said. “He needs to hear the files himself. I just don’t know how you’re going to get them to him. I’d be surprised if the stations in those mountains have internet.”
Holden pushed his coffee away, his anxiety morphing into jitters. “You worked in Deadswitch for years. Are you sure you don’t know anyone who can help us?”
A pained expression crossed Maidei’s face. She opened her mouth like she was going to speak, but then shut it, shaking her head.
“Please,” Holden begged.
“I already told you, I can’t get involved.”
“Why not?”
“Trauma,” she stated simply, and stood. “I need to go.”
“Wait, hold on. I didn’t mean—I didn’t know.” Holden fumbled over his words, racking his brain for anything he could say to keep her here. “I’ve never been to Deadswitch before. I didn’t mean to be ignorant or upset you.”
“You didn’t upset me. It’s complicated.” Dr. Chari dragged the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I think you’re doing the right thing, pursuing this. I hope you find help for them.”
“Dammit,” he muttered as she hurried out of the coffee shop. He clenched his hands into fists and shoved them into his lap. “What the hell do we do now?”
“Oh, come on.” Angel got up and slid into Dr. Chari’s old seat. “You know exactly what we need to do.” She pulled out her phone, her thumbs flying across the surface. “I’m calling us both out of work for the next two weeks.”
“Stop it.” He made a swipe at her phone, which Angel gracefully dodged. “You’re going to get us fired.”
She dodged Holden a second time, not missing a beat with her typing. “No, we’re not. We possess way too much domain knowledge, and the school can’t afford to replace us. Plus, it’s summer, and all Chase does is play games. Working for once won’t kill him.”
Holden pressed his palms to the top of the table. “What exactly are you suggesting? That we fly the files there ourselves?”
“Fly?” She laughed. “Do I look like I’m made of money? No, honey. We’re taking your Camry.”
“That piece of junk will fall apart before we get to Ashland.”
“It’s a Toyota. It will last another hundred thousand miles, easy.” Angel tapped the screen of her phone with her index finger. “There. All sent.”
“I have obligations here.”
Angel raised her eyebrows. “You can go without screwing Chelsea for a couple of weeks.”
“Not Chelsea. A dog. A roommate.”
“Bring the dog. Have a chat with your roommate. She’ll understand.”
“I can’t just—”
“Holden.” Angel leaned forward and placed her hands flat next to his. “Like you said, people’s lives are at stake. You were practically yelling at Dr. Chari.”
“I was not.”
“You care about this, so why are you hesitating? Neither of us have anything to lose.” Angel bit her lip, watching him for a moment before continuing. “I welcome an escape from the shitshow that is my divorce right now. I know you and I aren’t close or whatever, but if anything, do this to humor me.”
Holden gritted his teeth and shook his head, reminding himself Angel didn’t understand because he had never told her about the last time this happened, when he’d been so damn sure of something that hadn’t been real.
He peeled through his false memories like a flip book. Holding Becca, screwing Becca, dragging Becca through the rain and laughing until his stomach hurt. When he’d thought these moments were real, they’d served not only as a desperately needed dose of serotonin—they’d also split open the patina of heavy fog around his heart and made him fucking feel something for once, just like he felt something now. This was different, of course—a sundry of fear-related emotions instead of love—but it rushed through his body and lit up his nerve endings all the same.
How could he explain to Angel that the only time he had ever cared about anything so deeply had ended with him realizing he was delusional?
“This is some conspiracy-level shit. If we’re wrong about this, it means...” He drifted off.
“It means what? That we’re crazy?” Angel scoffed, but then her face fell. “I hope we’re crazy, Holden. I don’t think you yet realize what the alternative means.”
The cut was clean. Bloody, but clean.
He’d only ever sutured himself, though he’d made plenty of thread thanks to the intestines of the buck he’d killed some time ago. The needle, however, was crudely bent and looked like a death sentence in itself.
“You’ve been through worse,” he told her, pouring water from his canteen over the wound in her calf. It spilled in pink rivulets over her flesh before splattering on the rotted pine planks.
She groaned against the rope between her teeth and fell back against the wall.
He slammed his canteen on the floor, crushing a skittering beetle. His only tool to push the needle through was his fingers. He’d have to be more careful with her than he had been with himself, not because she couldn’t handle it, but because he still had to prove himself to her.
He cupped his free hand around her leg to steady her, or maybe just to feel her realness, her warmth, her muscles hardened from exhaustion and malnourishment and the wild.
The needle almost broke when she jerked and shrieked into her bite. Pinning her down, he coaxed the thread through the wound. She whimpered and writhed, and he was sorry. He knew this pain. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
After he tied the first successful stitch, she pulled the rope from her mouth. “Wait.” Her chest heaved. A bead of sweat rolled across her forehead, straight between her distrusting, frightened eyes.
“Who are you?”
Holden woke as Francis licked the cold sweat from his face. Pushing the dog away, he sat and swung his legs over the side of the bed, hunching to catch his breath. He rubbed his hands, half expecting to find blood caked to his fingers.
He could still hear her voice, worn and husky from the elements. Recognizable. And those eyes... Becca? No.
Siena.
Holden still smelled her sweat, blood, and fear as though she’d been in his bed. He could sense her will to survive like it was his own, more tenuous than the gut he had threaded through her injured leg.
Only a dream, but dreams had merit, didn’t they? Dreams had messages.
I need you,he imagined her saying. No one else knew she was in danger.
No one else was coming for her.
Holden flipped on his bedside lamp, stood, and began to pack.