She purses her lips. “Starting at the crash site?”
“Yes. If they search anywhere, it will be there first.”
“But that’s… How far did you carry me?”
“Half a day’s walk. Perhaps more. Time was…” I search for the word. “Unclear.”
“Jesus.” She touches her ribs gently, as if confirming they’re still whole. “That’s a long way to carry someone who should have been dead.”
“You were not dead.”
“I should have been.” Her voice drops. “I felt my bones break, K. Felt my chest collapse and—” She stops, swallows hard. “There’s no way I should be sitting here talking to you.”
I have no answer for this. The impossible made real through means I cannot explain.
“The fire chose,” I say, though I do not fully understand what this means.
“The fire chose,” she echoes. “That’s what you said before. What does that mean?”
“I do not know.”
She makes a sound that might be laughter or frustration. “You know, for someone who saved my life, you’re terrible at explanations.”
“Yes.”
This time it is definitely laughter—short, surprised. “At least you’re honest about it.”
The tension in her shoulders eases slightly. She shifts, testing her range of motion. Winces but does not stop.
“Tomorrow,” she says. “If I can walk without collapsing, we go back to the crash site. See if they left any sign. Any indication of where they went.”
I study her. She is better—remarkably so—but still fragile. Still healing from injuries that should have killed her.
But I understand the need. The not knowing is its own kind of wound.
“Tomorrow,” I agree. “We assess your strength at first light. If you can walk without pain, we go.”
Relief floods her expression. “Thank you.”
“Do not thank me yet. The terrain will be hard.”
“I don’t care. Anything is better than sitting here wondering if they’re alive or dead or waiting for me somewhere I can’t reach them.”
True.
“You should eat more,” I tell her, reaching for the pot of broth. “Build strength.”
“More mystery bird soup. My favorite.” But she accepts the bowl when I offer it, and I see genuine hunger in the way she drinks.
I watch her, this strange woman with blue-tinged hair and sharp humor who survived impossible things. Who speaks of lizard people and conspiracy channels like they’re normal. Who looks at my wrongness and calls me a friendly cryptid.
For the first time since waking in this emptiness, I feel something other than void.
Purpose, perhaps.
Or the beginning of connection to another living soul.
She finishes the broth and hands back the bowl. Our fingers brush—her skin cool against my unnatural heat.
