32. Knox
THIRTY-TWO
KNOX
I pat Lucy’s belly where she sleeps on the linoleum floor at my feet. I’ve been poring over maps, old government reports, and inventory lists—all the things that were left behind—for over an hour, trying to determine what’s too outdated to be useful.
“It looks like everyone was evacuated south of the closest rift zone,” I think aloud. “And we’re right outside a concentration of them.”
“Mm-hmm.” I barely hear Ava as she makes us something to eat behind me in the kitchen.
I stare at the maps again, wondering why this outpost didn’t take all their data with them. So we would know where to go? Or is it because the last dispatch was five days ago, and these maps are useless now? According to the three in front of me, we wouldn’t have gotten another two miles or so from where we turned around for Amarillo. We would’ve ended up here anyway.
“I think these maps are going to show us the clearest path around the fissures, assuming they’re still relatively accurate.”
“Sounds good.”
I glance back at Ava as she pours a box of pasta into a boiling pot on the stove. She leans against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest as she watches the steam rise. She’s been reserved and acting cagey since we got here, and I have no idea why. It couldn’t possibly be because of our kiss. Right? I keep wondering if she might be feeling awkward now that we’re not on the move.
Desperate to pry more than two syllables from her, I try again. “Thank God for the solar generators, huh?”
Ava glances at me over her shoulder, forcing another quick, tight-lipped smile.
“Anyway,” I continue, cracking the pressure in my neck, “I say we leave the truck behind tomorrow and take the horses.” I run my finger along each of the Sharpie-drawn lava flows that riddle the plains and mountains to the west. “We have no choice but to go through the terrain to get to the other side, and the horses will be our best chance. A two-day ride, maybe? But it’s our safest bet.”
Still, Ava is quiet, and shaking my head, I spin around. “Are you going to tell me what’s?—”
It happens in slow motion. Ava reaches for a chair to hold onto, but she’s too late.
“Ava!” Her fingers only brush the back of it as she loses her footing. I’m on my feet, sprinting to reach her as she falls to the ground, my heart in my throat. “Ava—” I barely reach her in time and pull her into my lap, cradling her head and uncertain what to do. I know it’s one of her episodes, but that doesn’t change how terrifying it is to watch her face slacken or the color drain from her cheeks.
Her body is clammy, but her eyes aren’t open like before; she’s out cold. She might be used to this, but I’m sure as hell not. It’s terrifying, but I try to stay focused, to think rationally.
I reach for the nob and shut the stove off. The towel draped over the oven handle falls to the floor and I use it to pat the sweat from her brow. “Ava.” Her name is a harsh whisper as I search my mind for words from what feels like a lifetime ago. What did she tell me about these things last time? It was different from this, but will she wake up the same way—tired and thirsty? I’m not sure if I should remove her long-sleeves, or leave her as she is.
My thoughts are a blur as I lift Ava into my arms, kissing her forehead as I carry her into the bunkroom. It’s all I can do not to squeeze the life out of her, holding her to my chest, as if any of my strength might seep into her bones and wake her.
The bunkroom smells stale and unused, but the beds, a dozen of them split in three rows, fill the giant space. The room looks partially ransacked, the remnants of a whirlwind rush to leave. A couple of phone chargers are left on the nightstands, books are stacked beside reading lamps, and only some beds are covered with blankets.
Carefully, I lay Ava on a bed against the wall, easing her head down as gently as I can. I can’t take my eyes off her face. I want her eyelashes to flutter or the color to return to her cheeks. I even lay my ear to her chest to make sure her heart is still beating. “Come on,” I quietly urge, though I want to shout it as a command. It’s been seconds—a couple of minutes at most—and she’ll wake up soon, like last time. I think.
I remove her boots and steal the comforter from the next bed over. “I’ll get you some water.” In case she can hear me, I want her to know I’ll be back, and I rush out of the room, Lucy at my side.
This is the second time I’ve been this scared in the past week. Not even fleeing the ranch was this terrifying—at least then I had some control. Here, like this, with nothing to do but wait it out, desperation feels real and alive as it claws through my chest like a rabid wolf.
Tossing the towel on the counter, I grab two water bottles from our stash and a box of crackers in case Ava wakes hungry, and I swoop my arm through her backpack strap along the way.
I set the water and crackers down on the nightstand and drop Ava’s backpack on the ground. Her cheeks finally have some color, and too anxious to sit and wait for her to wake up, I crawl into bed beside her, pulling Ava against me. “I’m right here,” I whisper. I place my hand on her chest to feel each breath because it’s the only salve for my nerves at this point. My arms tighten around her. “I’m right here.”