Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
ZACH
Sofie’s engine is still running. Like she jumped out of her car to intervene. We get to the passenger side out of breath, but I manage to keep my dinner down.
Climbing into my seat sends a blowtorch of pain up the right side of my body. Panting, bracing off the sides to support my frame, I slowly adjust my legs and try to ease back into the seat. My knees have to stay bent, but I get settled enough to hopefully endure the drive.
Sofie gets behind the wheel and buckles, then reverses out of the parking lot. The bump from rolling over the curb makes me shout in pain.
Sofie winces. “Sorry.”
Concentrating on bracing myself while she drives drains the last of my energy. My head starts to throb. I close my eyes and will the pain to soften.
When the road turns to gravel, Sofie slows, but the route is rutted with washboards and pockmarked. Every rattle and dip of the squishy suspension makes me stiffen and grunt as renewed pain shoots through me. Finally, we turn up a narrow lane and park in front of a white, single-story house with a covered porch, framed on both sides by tall trees .
“I’m going to get help,” Sofie says and dashes from the car. She continues through a gate in the picket fence and into the house.
I open my door and start maneuvering my position. Each shift of my weight brings more pain.
The front door of the house flies open, sending a beam of light across the tidy yard. Sofie and a man in a flannel shirt and jeans race toward me. A spotted brown dog slips from the door after them.
They hurry through the gate, and the man comes to help me up. He’s barefoot, like he couldn’t be bothered to put on shoes.
“I’m Rowdy, Sofie’s dad.” His tone is firm but kind. “Where you hurt, son?”
“My back,” I grit out, still shifting slowly.
“One of them had a baseball bat.” Sofie sounds worried, and I hate being the cause.
“If you’re bleeding internally, you’ll need a doctor.”
“I just need to lie down.” I shake my head for emphasis, but everything is stiffening up. “I’ll be fine.”
“Let’s get you inside.” He and Sofie position themselves on either side of me so I can rest my arms over their shoulders. We move slowly, with me panting through the pain until I’m upright. The night sky swims as I breathe through a wave of nausea. I lean on them as we shuffle from the driveway, then through the gate.
The dog comes to sniff my pant leg, then darts into the house like she’s leading the way.
“We’ll use Jesse’s room,” Rowdy says as we get through the doorway.
The hallway off of the living area is narrow, so Sofie slips from under me and races ahead, turning left into a bedroom. A large bed in the left corner faces a large window, the shade half lowered. Sofie flicks on the bedside table lamp, then hurries back to my right side.
Getting onto the bed and finally prone is torment but once I’m there, a welcome dose of relief spreads through me.
“Let’s get him a glass of water and some Advil,” Rowdy says quietly. “I wish we had something stronger, but?—”
“It’s okay,” I say.
Sofie disappears.
“I’m no doctor but I can at least make sure you don’t have a serious injury. That all right with you?”
My body betrays me by stiffening up, which makes me grunt in pain.
Rowdy leans back, his eyes wary. “Will you let Sofie have a look? Just so we know what we’re dealing with.”
Sofie returns, and with her and Rowdy’s help, I sit up enough to slide the pills through my lips and take a small sip of water. I have to talk myself into swallowing. Finally, the pills go down, and I can lay back.
“If it’s too painful, we can wait until the Advil kicks in,” Rowdy says in that same calm voice.
That he’s giving me an out somehow signals to my brain that it’s all right. I roll to my front side, but tugging my shirt free makes the pain jolt up to my shoulder. My fingers hurt too. Probably from when I clawed at the fencing. Something feels sticky, like I might be bleeding.
“Zach, let me help,” Sofie says.
Every nerve ending of my skin fires, making the sensation of her fingers at my lower back feel foreign. I’m scared yet there’s also the very new idea that I’m safe here. Maybe safer than I’ve been in a long time. The opposing realities are at war while Sofie gently pulls up my shirt, exposing my back.
She sucks in a breath. “Oh, Zach.”
“You’ve got a bruise forming on your right flank,” Rowdy says. “But it might have missed your kidney.”
We’ll know as soon as I take a piss if this is true.
“Can you wiggle your toes and fingers?” Rowdy asks.
I comply.
“Any tingling?”
“No.”
“Can Sofie check your spine?”
“It’s okay.” I’m barely holding onto the emotions crashing through me. Because trusting them is like coming in from a brutal storm, frostbitten and empty to find a hot meal waiting and a comfy chair to rest in.
Starting at the base of my skull, Sofie’s fingertips press on my vertebrae, wiggling each one.
I suck in a breath when she gets halfway down .
“Here?” She softens her touch.
“More to the right,” I grit out as the pain taps harder, echoing deeper, through muscle and bone.
She walks her fingers along my rib. Her caring touch sends goosebumps everywhere. I wish I could stop them, but it happens anyway.
“There. Fuck.” I lay there panting when what I want to do is scream in frustration.
Sofie and her dad share a look.
Sofie continues down. My lower vertebrae are sore, but I think some of that first blow was absorbed by my backpack.
“How about your sides?” Rowdy asks.
Sofie gently presses her palm onto either side of my lower back. It hurts, but it’s not sharp like the rib.
“Looks like no broken vertebrae. That bruise has me worried, but I don’t see the harm in letting you rest, check how you feel in the morning.”
I release a sigh into the comforter. Resting here sounds so good I could cry. The house is warm and quiet. The bed is firm and spacious, with a soft comforter.
“You might feel better on that right side.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve had my ribs broken, but I don’t need to tell him that. When I roll to my right, the pain lessens just enough that I can imagine resting for a little while.
Sofie moves to my feet and gently slips off my shoes. The tiny amount of jostling sends pain messages shooting up my spine, but they ebb as soon as she’s done.
Rowdy squats down so our eyes lock in the darkness. “Did you see anything we can use to find who did this?”
His use of the plural brings up all the raw emotions I’m trying to keep inside. Because I would love to not be alone in this fight. Yet it means trusting him—a stranger.
“Black truck,” I say. “Might have a broken headlight.”
“Which one?”
I close my eyes for a moment to think. “Left.”
“What’s your backpack look like?”
“Gray. Orange straps. Faded though. ”
“All right,” Rowdy says.
He and Sofie unfold a thick comforter over me.
“Thank you,” I say while Sofie carefully tucks in the edges.
A tall girl in pale yellow pajama bottoms and a T-shirt peers around the doorframe. “Daddy?”
Rowdy steps over to her and cradles her shoulders. “I’m sorry we woke you, honey.”
“What’s happening?” She tries to peek around her dad. “Is it Jesse?”
“No, a friend of Sofie’s. He’s hurt, but he’s okay. Come on, I’ll tuck you in.” He leads her from the room.
A door closes somewhere deeper inside the house.
“Can you call Henry Hutton?” I ask Sofie.
I expect her to react—in surprise or to tease—but she rests her hand on my hip as if wanting to reassure me. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything else I can do?”
I can’t ask her to stay up all night keeping me company. Especially when I’m not likely to sleep thanks to the throbbing pain in my side and the dull headache. But I want to.
And that scares me.
“I’ll come back in a little bit, okay?” she says.
I close my eyes.
Something wakes me with a start, which jabs a spear of pain into my lungs. Gasping, I try to relax, but the pain stays hot and sharp.
I’ve been here for two nights. Yesterday is a blur. I tried to sleep, but the pain woke me again and again. Ate what I could. Slept some more. I think Henry stopped by—I heard his voice, though it could be a dream. Today, however, I plan to get on with things.
The room is still dark, but from somewhere in the house, water is running.
“You make funny noises.” It’s the little sister. Linnea. I blink in the direction of the doorway. She’s standing in faded jeans and a long- sleeved T-shirt, her hair in two long braids. The dog, Fergie—I think—sits at her side, wagging her tail.
“Linn,” Sofie’s voice carries a warning tone. She swoops into the room, giving me a concerned glance and a harried “sorry” before steering her sister off.
“Why does he have a snake tattoo?” Linnea mutters as they move toward the kitchen.
Fergie walks in and curls up against the side of the bed. She licks her chops and sighs.
The front door shuts and I’m alone again. Through the window across the room, the early hint of the sunrise warms the view of the forest. Tall trees and aspens. My side throbs.
That first night, Rowdy said something about not having anything stronger in the house. Is it because of Jesse? Family members of addicts are often warned not to keep prescription meds around. Shit. It could also mean Jesse struggles with mental health issues. Either would be cause for Sofie to worry like she does.
The front door opens and shuts with a creak and a soft click, then Sofie reappears.
She’s dressed in leggings and an oversized fleece pullover that I’m guessing is her dad’s. Or a boyfriend’s. I grimace at this idea, then curse myself for thinking it.
I have no say in who keeps Sofie Whittaker warm at night. Kiss or no kiss.
She’s removed the shoes she wore to walk Linnea to the school bus, revealing mismatched socks.
“How do you feel?” She lowers to the side of the bed near my knees. Fergie sits up and rests her snout on the bed, like she’s listening for my answer too.
“Like shit.”
She sighs. “Do you know who did this?”
“I thought you might.”
She shakes her head. “The plates were local. That’s all I saw.”
“Doesn’t Gabe drive a black truck?”
“Yeah.” Her gaze turns puzzled. “Gabe was at The Limelight.”
Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have left without Sofie knowing.
“Zach, I don’t think Gabe would do something like this.”
“He made it clear that I’m not welcome in this town.” I reach out to stroke Fergie’s soft head. The movement sends the pain up my side, but the comfort of petting her is worth it.
Sofie’s pretty face tenses in distress. “Did either of them say anything to you?”
“No.”
I close my eyes. If it wasn’t Gabe, then who would come after me? In a town where movie stars and guests of extreme wealth regularly wander around, why jump me for my ratty backpack? There’s no way my attackers knew I had that money stashed there. I’ve never shown it to anyone. Never talked about it.
However, I take that backpack everywhere. Has someone been watching me?
Which brings me back to Gabe.
A new idea bursts into my mind. What about Jesse? I think about this bed, all made up and ready for him at a moment’s notice. Like they expect he’ll need it.
I’m afraid if I look at Sofie, she’ll be able to read my thoughts.
She rises slowly and slips from the room. Fergie curls up again and sighs.
When I open my eyes again, Rowdy is standing in the doorway dressed in his uniform, weapon holstered at his hip. His hair is wet, like he’s freshly showered.
“Hungry?” he asks.
It takes me a moment to work up to answering. “I think so.”
“Feel like joining us at the table?”
I’m definitely not going to let them dote on me anymore. “I do.”
After peeling back the covers, I slowly shift position, keeping the pain at a manageable throb.
Rowdy comes next to me on the bed and helps hoist me to my feet. The room spins, and my face gets hot. Rowdy doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to move, so I take a moment to breathe in shallow gulps. My balance returns, and slowly, I release my arm from Rowdy’s shoulders.
The wrinkles fanning both his eyes tell me about how he spends his days, but the kindness in his gaze and the laugh lines around his mouth give just as much away.
Knowing what I do about his daughter, am I surprised that he’s just as thoughtful? That he’s not the least bit rattled by my presence?
“I’m good.” I muster a reassuring smile before crossing the hallway to the narrow bathroom.
“We’ll need to tend to that wound.” He levels me with a serious gaze. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
This bathroom must be Sofie and her sister’s because there is a rainbow of hair ties bunched in a little basket next to the sink and a hook on the side of the medicine cabinet for ribbons. Various skin care products are clustered on the counter.
It’s not like I’m snooping but taking stock of their things feels like an invasion of their privacy.
The most challenging part about taking a leak is bending down to lift the seat. I go slowly, the pain in my side skyrocketing. Huffing there in the tight space until it ebbs, I brace against the wall so I can tripod. I’m not about to make a mess.
Emptying my bladder doesn’t create more pain, which means the likelihood of an internal injury is low. Though when I’m through, a dull ache echoes through my insides.
I finish up and shuffle to the sink. My pale face looks pained. There’s a scratch above my right eye, probably from crashing into the fence. My shirt sleeve is torn. And when I wash my hands, water gets into the dressing covering my right hand, making me wince.
When I open the door, Rowdy meets me with the first aid kit and a bottle of ibuprofen. He sets the kit down on the sink counter, then taps out four of the pills and hands them to me. “It’s best to stay ahead of the pain.”
Sounds like this is coming from experience, and as a game warden, I don’t doubt he’s had plenty.
I swallow the pills dry, then scoop water into my mouth to wash them down. Moving hurts, but if I go slowly, I can bear it.
From the first aid kit, Rowdy slips out a pair of EMT shears, then cradles my hand to cut away the gauze he put on yesterday. His calloused palms are rough on my skin. It’s not that I mind, but this sudden intimacy, especially in such tight quarters, is heightening every sensation. Ignoring the urge to put space between us or resist his help takes massive amounts of energy. I hope he doesn’t notice.
“You could use a few stitches,” he says once the soaked Band-Aids and gauze are peeled off and I start bleeding again.
My non-answer doesn’t seem to faze him, because he guides my hand down to the sink and turns on the water. The pain makes me hiss, and though I don’t mean to, I jerk back, which sends sharp pains up my side.
Rowdy’s mouth tightens in a grimace. “Sorry.”
He dries the wound, then smears ointment on a dry square of gauze and gently presses it into place.
“Thanks,” I say.
He glances from his work rolling new gauze over the dressing, his face pinched with worry. “Think you can keep it dry for a few days?”
“I’ll try.”
Rowdy scoops up the supplies. “Come to the kitchen when you’re ready.”
He disappears down the hallway.
I splash some water on my face with my good hand, but because I can’t bend over too far, it drips down my shirt. If I had my backpack, I could change into the spare undershirt I was carrying.
The memory of what I’ve lost rips through me. I brace against the sink and breathe.
The phone is replaceable. So is my jacket and water bottle. Losing my sketchbook makes me queasy. It’s been my companion all these months, a private chronicle of my journey. There’s no way to recreate what was in those pages.
Losing the money is an unlucky break. It also means I’m not leaving Finn River anytime soon. Even with my upcoming paycheck—which Henry promised to cash for me—I won’t have enough to survive a winter on the road.
The Leatherman tool though, that’s going to hurt for a long time. It was a birthday gift from my dad. Back when everything was still good. He was alive and well. Mom was okay. We were a family. Whole.
I slip my wallet from my back pocket and thumb my one picture of William and me from one of the credit card sleeves. We had been playing catch in the field behind the house, so our cheeks are flushed. I can practically hear our heaving breaths. Behind us in the photo, Alaska’s midnight sun hangs low, turning the snowy peaks to silver and the tips of the meadow grass to a warm gold.
Thick, prickly emotions lodge in my throat. I stare at the photo and try to swallow everything back down, back to where they’re safe.
If only I could call William. Hear his voice. Reassure him that we’re both going to be okay. That we’ll be together again.
But I don’t know that yet.
And I’m done making promises I can’t keep.