Chapter Six Violet #2
I look around. I’m scared, but it’s not the oppressive, heavy fear I’ve carried since Otōsan’s arrest. This fear is jumpy, exhilarating.
It pumps through my body, as if something is alive in my bloodstream and swims through me.
The searchlight skims across the camp again, drenching it in a funnel of light. I wait for it to pass.
Then it’s the perfect time.
I intend to dash to the base of the fence, but the ground is so uneven that I end up moving in strange hops and jerks.
The lowest strand of barbed wire gleams dangerously in the moonlight.
I reach to grab the spot in between the barbs.
Another hand lifts it for me, forming a hole.
Ren. I throw myself onto the ground and scuttle forward.
Cold, pebbled dirt digs into my midsection.
In my mind, I thought I would perform my maneuver elegantly, but I flail like an upended turtle, clawing my way forward.
I’m on the other side.
I can’t believe it.
Jumping up, I turn to hold the wire for Ren. He’s already halfway through, sheltering his injured arm with his good one. A few seconds later, he pops up next to me.
Quickly, we hurry away from the fence, finding ourselves in a gravelly clearing rimmed in trees rising in leafless skeletons from the earth.
We duck into the grove and the yawning darkness beyond it.
It takes a few moments for our eyes to adjust, but once they do it suddenly doesn’t seem so dark anymore.
The moon and stars drown the desert in nocturnal light, plating everything in blue-black and silver.
“Closest stream should be this way,” Ren says, pointing. “Asked some guys earlier.”
My ineffectualness at sneaking out becomes painfully clear once again—I didn’t even consider I might need directions.
Ren leads, and we find our way over the prickly, rocky terrain.
Brush scratches my legs. Twigs and burrs catch on my pants.
My steps are uneven. Even though we haven’t ascended, the air is reedy in my lungs, but I think it’s because of nerves.
We cut slightly to the south. The mountains, in the darkness, are mere inky shadows in the distance.
A stream rounds a brushy bend and cuts across the rocky ground in a rippling sheet.
It’s thin, more of a creek than an actual stream.
Spiky desert growth clusters thick and tall around it.
Away from the camp, the night air is chilly, clean, and thin. I breathe it in, deep and long.
It’s a previously occupied spot. Empty green 7-Up bottles gleam like glowing eyes in the night and a men’s interest magazine is crumpled in the dirt.
It’s open. My eyes widen at the photo of a woman covering her breasts, her fingers spread like star anise.
I’m grateful when Ren flips the magazine shut with his foot.
Someone has brought a wool military blanket but never used it.
They’ve left it on a rock. It’s still in its packaging.
“Want it?” Ren asks, nodding at the blanket. I hesitate, but then a brisk wind cuts across the creek.
“Yes, thank you.”
Wordlessly, Ren picks it up, shakes off the packaging, and hands it to me.
“It’s cold,” I say, letting it hang from my grip. “We can share it.”
There’s a long moment of silence. In the moonlight, Ren stares at me, hard.
Then he turns toward the stream. I don’t understand why he weighs and measures each action as though there’s something bad behind every single one.
Perhaps he intends for his reluctance to keep me out, but it only makes me wish to find a way in.
He bends awkwardly down, inhibited by the sling, and picks up a pebble.
“Ever skipped rocks?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.” I pull the blanket around my shoulders. “But I’d like to try. Tonight is a night of firsts, after all.”
“You just…” He grips the pebble and flicks his wrist. I’m impressed as it hops across the water like a frog.
Carefully, he plucks up another pebble and holds it out.
Our hands overlap for a moment when I take it.
I give the rock a flick, and it plunks anticlimactically into the stream, plunging straight to the bottom.
“I’ve sent it to a quick and watery grave,” I declare, dissatisfied with my performance. “What am I doing wrong?”
“More of this.” Ren illustrates the flicking motion, first quickly and then in slow motion so I can observe. I mimic the move, and he picks up a pebble for me. Armed with my new rock, I try again. It performs similarly to its brethren.
“What in the Sam Hill!” I exclaim in annoyance.
I pick up another pebble and arch my wrist back.
It’ll be a cold day in you-know-where before these inanimate pebbles best me.
Ren lets out a soft laugh and I turn to him, inflamed.
“Don’t just laugh. Help me.” The laughter dies immediately on his lips, and he regards me quietly.
“If you wouldn’t mind. I might require more hands-on instruction. ”
I’m glad for the milky darkness because my face flushes at my own forwardness.
I turn sideways, inviting him to come correct my form.
His gaze flickers over me. He steps forward, halts.
Then, with a confidence that surprises me, he steps beside me, his body mirroring mine.
With his good hand, he gently clasps my wrist and my face flushes even more.
Ren’s fingers are long, and they close entirely around my wrist. Carefully, he angles my hand back.
Only his fingers touch me, making my limbs seem distant aside from where our hands connect.
Every nerve in my body rushes there. They zing under his touch.
His palm remains arched away and so does the rest of him, even though he’s close to me, so very close that if I took a deep enough breath, our bodies would meet.
Once my hand is in the correct position, he releases me and steps back. I immediately miss his touch.
“Set it free,” he says softly. I give a quick jerk with my wrist. The pebble glides forward.
It bounds across the water, as graceful as a ballerina performing jetés across a stage.
I let out an exclamation of excitement and triumph.
Turning to Ren, I throw my hands around his neck in a celebratory hug.
His good arm curves around me, and I’m surprised by how strong he is.
Through his shirt, I feel the defined, taut broadness of his chest. Then, almost imperceptibly, his breath catches and his body winces away from me.
“Oh my goodness.” I quickly release him and stumble back. “Your shoulder. I’m so sorry.”
He’s busy reordering his features so there isn’t even a hint of pain in them, but I already know I’ve hurt him.
“I’m fine,” he says stoically, which only makes me feel worse.
“Here.” I point to the nearby rock, the one where the blanket was placed. “Sit down.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my legs.” He regards the rock and me with suspicion, as though I’ve set a trap for him. “I don’t need to sit.”
“I’m aware.” I’d be amusedly exasperated at his heroics if there didn’t seem to be so much hidden behind them. “However, it would make me feel tremendously less guilty if you let me take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.” He speaks immediately and assuredly, as though any other response isn’t conceivable.
“I’m sure you can.” I’m not stroking his ego.
I can tell he’s been taking care of himself for a long time and, perhaps, his mother and sister, too.
“But there’s very little risk to sitting down as far as I know.
Unless you wish to stand there like a fence post?
I can’t say it’s a very cordial posture, but suit yourself. ”
Slowly, he crosses to the rock and settles down on it.
His movements are hampered by his sling.
I must have hurt his shoulder more than I realized because he holds that side of his body stiffer than before, but I know he won’t accept help.
I sink down onto the rock next to him. Its top is flat, as though nature has made us a bench.
Tiny mineral composites across its surface glitter in the night. I hold up the blanket.
“You don’t have a jacket. We should share it.”
I think he might object but he doesn’t. He also doesn’t move closer to make it possible.
Apparently, blanketing us will be a one-woman operation.
I don’t mind. I scoot toward him. Delicately, trying not to hurt him any more, I drape the blanket over his shoulders.
He grabs the edge with his good hand, and I tuck the remainder around myself.
The blanket stretches between us, like webbing or scaffolding, linking us even though we don’t touch.
I can feel his body heat, his warmth radiating in the small space created by the blanket.
My deer adds its own warmth, continuously flowing toward Ren.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the stream.
The creek cuts its way through the night, flowing down from ancient mountains, turned pewter by the moonlight.
It trickles with abandon, and I feel as though it winds through my own heart.
Around us, soft sounds whisper from the earth, the desert keeping its song close.
Trills, chirps, ripples, and riffs add voice to the stream’s melody.
Brush rustles and I can hear snakes and lizards slithering and darting through the dirt.
It’s beautiful and pure, a severe contrast to the camp’s writhing, unhappy cacophony.
I lift my head. Since arriving, I haven’t looked at the sky once, the viewfinder of my world narrowed to survival.
But, now, I look up, up, up.