37. Ava
THIRTY-SEVEN
AVA
“ Knox !” My scream is lost among the earsplitting horse cries and the bubbling pond. Crows caw as they scatter somewhere in the distance. The trees creak as they settle back into place, and I grip the saddle horn, shushing Loca in a half-hearted attempt to calm her as she spins and tugs against me, winding up to bolt.
When she steadies enough for me to climb down, I wrap her reins around the tree branch and practically fall to my knees beside Knox’s unconscious, crumpled body. He’s contorted on his side with his backpack and flannel bunched around him.
I shove Lucy away from his face to get a better look.
This is not happening.
This cannot be happening.
I blink, focusing on his chest, willing it to rise.
Knox is big and strong and healthy . He is fine. He will be fine. But despite my internal pep talk, I can’t tell if Knox is breathing, and as utter terror grips hold of me, I bend over to listen for a heartbeat. His chest finally rises, and I hold my breath, waiting for it to fall. It does. Again and again. And still, distrusting my own eyes, I press my trembling fingers to Knox’s wrist to confirm a pulse. His skin is warm, and the life beating inside him soothes me, though only a little.
When I’m content my mind isn’t playing tricks on me, I roll back on my heels and cover my face with my hands, desperate to keep my shit together. As every horrible scenario threatens to rear its ugly head, I try to keep focused. Did he hit the tree? A rock on the ground? Was it something in his backpack that knocked him unconscious?
I examine Knox’s body for obvious broken bones or traces of blood. There are no hoofprints or proof Rooster stepped on him, but those five chaotic seconds are a blur. For all I know, Knox’s back could be broken.
“Can you hear me, Knox?” I press my palm to his chest, gentle but firm. “I need you to wake up.”
Nothing. Not a flutter under his eyelids or a hitch in his breath. His lips don’t twitch and neither do his fingers. He’s completely out.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I blow out a breath, run my sweaty hands down my pants, and reorganize my thoughts again. If it’s a concussion, he’ll wake soon. He has to. “Knox, I know I shouldn’t move you, but I need to see if you’re bleeding.” I swallow again, my throat suddenly dry. If he’s bleeding, I’ll know he hit his head, but what are the repercussions of such a blow?
I try not to consider it. Clenching my trembling fingers into fists, I take another deep breath, lean in, and pull the collar of his shirt down with one hand, moving his backpack away with the other. The moment I see blood on the dirt and the flannel collar, a sob bubbles out of me, along with an unwanted slew of what-ifs.
Falling onto my butt, I press my hands over my face and force myself to inhale. I make myself think of Mavey—of anything and everything I learned from hospice that might be helpful. But my mind is blank. All I can see is Mavey with her painted fingernails, lying lifeless in bed.
I only exhale when my lungs burn with more than fear and sadness.
In and out.
In and out.
I can’t just sit here. I need to do something—take action.
Blinking back tears, I tug my pack off to look for my first aid kit. Head wounds bleed a lot. It probably looks worse than it is. Stop the bleeding and give him a moment to wake up. Everything will be fine.
I fumble with the zipper pouch, grab a roll of gauze and tear open a cotton pad to cover the wound at the base of his skull. “This will help with the bleeding.” I say the words out loud so I might actually believe them. “It’s not gushing. That’s a good thing.”
With precise movements, I wrap Knox’s wound as best I can, lifting his head only slightly to get the bandage around. He’s heavier than I expect, but I fixate on his warm skin and check his rising chest again, ensuring it’s still moving.
Lucy whimpers, watching me skeptically. “I’m being careful,” I promise for both our sakes. When I’m finally finished, I sit back and catch my breath; I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it. I wipe the blood on my hands onto my jeans and rub Lucy’s head—which is all I can offer her right now.
I meet her worried doggy eyes. “What do I do now?” She blinks, whimpers, and sits in wait. “There has to be something.” Shaking my head, I glance uselessly around us.
The water is undrinkable, and the inky sky is bordering on black; it’s only a matter of time before it’s completely dark. “I know I shouldn’t move you, Knox,” I murmur, “but—what if you don’t wake up? I need to find help.” Even if moving him weren’t a dangerous gamble, there’s no way I can get his dead weight on the back of his horse—Knox outweighs me by fifty pounds at least.
With no other option, I launch into work mode, desperate to keep my mind busy while I wait for Knox to wake up. I pour some of our drinking water into a plastic container for Lucy. When she’s finished, I do the same for each of the horses. They slurp up a bottle between them in an instant but it’s all I can afford to give them, for now.
Still, Knox sleeps.
I unpack and roll out a sleeping bag to cover him, then gather wood for a campfire. And still, Knox sleeps. My mind spins as I question the differences between sleep and being knocked out—what did that hit to the head do to him? What is it doing to him right now ? I brush silent tears away as I light kindling in a small tuft of tinder I put together, blowing the flames higher when they catch. When I’m finished, I grab Knox’s water bottle to place beside him, just like he does for me when I wake up from one of my seizures.
But still, Knox sleeps, and hysteria starts inching its way in.
I have to go for help.
Ignoring my sore legs, I crouch beside him, resting my hand on Knox’s forehead. He’s warm but not overly hot. He’s breathing, but it’s been thirty minutes and he’s still not awake. The longer he stays like this, the worse off he might be when he wakes.
If he wakes.
What if he wakes and I’m gone? What if he doesn’t know what happened and he’s alone? What if he leaves while I’m gone to go looking for me ?
My nostrils flare as I shove each paralyzing thought down as far as it will go. I have to at least try to get help because I have no idea what’s wrong with him.
I peer north through the sparse trees, at the ominous plains and unwelcoming landscape stretched beyond. There is nothing out there. Remembering Cactus, I consider riding there, banking on people still living in the tiny town and willing to help. If they all went to Guymon, though, and Knox is still asleep when I get back, I’ll have to find a way to get us there too.
The farm with the trespassing signs. It’s the only place we’ve passed remotely close to here, but they might shoot me on the spot. Or... I bite the inside of my cheek. I could get lucky, and they’d be willing to help. Maybe they won’t be there at all, but a place like that might have a truck, or trailer, or a goddamn tractor for all I care, something I can use to get Knox to Guymon.
I stare at Lucy lying forlornly beside him. “You have to stay,” I tell her. Her ears perk up as I rise to my feet. Absently, I unload everything I can from Loca’s back, even the shotgun I leave beside Knox in exchange for the pistol holstered to his belt.
Grabbing one of the maps and a pen from Knox’s bag, I circle the approximate location I’m headed and draw an arrow to the edge of the paper.
FARMHOUSE. WENT FOR HELP.
I write it in big, double-traced letters, and tuck the map under my backpack, propped next to him so it doesn’t blow away.
I study Knox’s face in the dancing firelight—his serious, sharp angles that soften in sleep. How can a man so strong and capable look so helpless? How can my heart be breaking and I don’t even know if he’s gone?
“I’ll be back,” I promise, and tuck the sleeping bag around him as best I can. “I’m going to find help.”
Wiping a stray tear from my cheek, I silently beg him to be okay. I can’t do any of this without him. I don’t want to. This was our beginning, what all the bullshit we’ve gone through in the past decade was leading to. Us. A second chance, together. There has to be a reason we’re all we have left, and I won’t lose him or sit here uselessly with hope.
Before I can turn into a blubbering mess, I make sure the pistol is loaded and grab a flashlight to shove in Loca’s saddlebag, the rope, and extra bullets, just in case. When it’s all loaded, I climb up and give Lucy a final command to stay put.
I glance at Knox, uncertain if it’s fear that he might not wake up or fear that he will and I won’t be here that makes it hard to breathe.
“Come on.” I kick Loca into a full run and ride for help.