Chapter 1
I give up on sleep. The sun will be up soon anyway, and the thick, sticky air makes it impossible to get comfortable in my sleeping bag.
Besides, I’m not safe here. Even tucked into the thick brush along the river, it’s hard to let your guard down on dry land.
Especially now that I’m alone. Now that she’s not here.
I need to get back on the river and move on.
I climb out of my sleeping bag as carefully as I can, but the moment I get to my feet, a sharp stab steals my breath. My calf. I was hoping it would be better today. I try to ignore the pain while I pack up my stuff, but it throbs, keeping time with my heartbeat. Goddammit.
The first hints of daylight rise behind the forest along the river, but it’s still too dark to see clearly. I turn on one of my battery-powered lanterns and take a deep breath as I roll up the left leg of my cargo pants. Time to assess the damage.
The jagged gash has completely soaked through the scrap of T-shirt I tied around it yesterday.
Right after it happened. Right after everything I thought I knew got flipped on its ass forever.
I sigh and accept it. It’s not going to stop bleeding on its own.
I need to take care of this. And I have everything I need to get the job done, unfortunately.
I eye the tackle box with dread. It has plenty of hooks and fishing line. I don’t want to do this myself. I wish…
No. Remember what she did.
Maybe this is what it’ll always be like without her. Just moving through life, feeling like an open wound. Like someone climbed inside my skin, then tried to claw their way out. Left ruined and raw. I can’t let myself think about it.
I pick the thinnest hook with the smallest barb, then dig through my supplies to find one of the bottles of liquor we stole from the casino yesterday.
The cap twists off easily and I’m overwhelmed by the sharp smell.
Wrinkling my nose, I tip the bottle, gulp, and nearly heave.
The clear liquid burns my throat and makes my eyes water. This is a bad idea.
I take another drink.
After several deep breaths, I steel myself and pour a steady stream of liquor over my calf.
It burns like hell, but I clench my jaw and let it hurt, telling myself the searing sting is a good sign.
That’s what our group therapists back at the Pegasus Center always said.
Sometimes you have to let something hurt before it can heal. Another drink.
My fingers shake a little, but I manage to tie the fishing line to the end of the hook, then dip the whole thing into the bottle, hoping it kills any germs. My bravery is waning every second.
“Get it done,” I say to myself through gritted teeth.
I dig the hook into my leg. My vision blurs and my stomach rolls.
I force myself to breathe and pull the fishing line through my flesh.
Another drink. The next stitch is easier.
By the end of the third, I get into a rhythm and soon there’s a jagged row of nine stitches and a half-empty bottle of vodka.
The stitches are ugly. They’ll scar. But maybe they’ll stop the bleeding and keep out infection.
It’s okay. It’ll heal. I’ll be fine.
Dizzy, I fumble through my backpack for a fresh strip of T-shirt and tie it around my stitches.
Then I try to tend to my hair. It’s a gnarled mess after weeks of open air, sweat, and filthy water.
I wince as I work the knots free with my fingers, then part it down the middle and manage a short, sun-bleached ponytail that rests on the back of my neck.
See? It’s fine. I don’t need anyone. Everything is going to be fine.
A wave of exhaustion comes next. I hardly slept last night. But the sun is up now, and what else am I going to do? Sit on the shore and pout? I pack everything into my boat, push into the middle of the river, and start rowing.
Maybe it’s the lull of the river and the birds chirping in the trees. Maybe it’s the alcohol. But I can’t help it when the memories of yesterday come rushing back.
I still can’t believe I didn’t see it coming.
The most dangerous thing in these woods had been staring me in the face the whole time.
A parasite. A con artist. A goddamn liar.
Still, she was the partner you’d want at the end of the world.
Endlessly creative and just as cutthroat as me, when she had to be.
Plus, Keisha had a way of making you feel important.
The only problem is she made everyone feel that way.
It doesn’t make you special. It didn’t mean you were safe.
My heart thuds as my last memory of her flashes behind my eyes. The moment my machete pierced her chest. I can feel the bile rising in my throat. Before I can stop it, the burn of vodka creeps back up and I hurl into the water.
That’s probably for the best. I rinse my mouth and chug as much water as I can hold, then nibble on a few crackers to settle my stomach.