Kay studies me for a moment. “Bad,” he finally says.
Not exactly detailed, but his tone conveys enough.
“How did you find me? How did you get me out?”
He rises in one smooth motion and moves to a crude shelf carved into the wall, returning with a wooden cup.
“Water,” he says, offering it to me.
Avoidance. Great.
I take the cup, our fingers brushing briefly. His skin burns hot against mine—not fever-hot, but unnaturally warm. The water tastes incredible; cold and slightly mineral, nothing like treated city water. I drain it in three gulps.
“The crash,” I try again, handing the cup back. “I was trapped. There was fire everywhere.”
K nods once but offers nothing more.
“Luke and Ember… you said they’re safe? Do they know where I am? They must be looking for me—”
“They escaped,” he repeats. “They are… elsewhere.”
Frustration bubbles up. “Look, I appreciate the mountain man of mystery vibe, but I need actual information. My friends think I’m dead. I need to contact them.”
“You need time,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “To heal.”
My hand moves to my chest, where the pain lingers. I lift the shirt just enough to examine my abdomen. What I expect: bandages, stitches, something catastrophic. What I see: smooth skin, slightly reddened, with a silvery pattern like branching lightning that’s already fading.
“This isn’t right,” I whisper, pressing my fingertips against my sternum. There’s tenderness, but it feels like a week-old bruise, not a fresh injury. Not the torn flesh and broken bones I remember. “I was hurt worse than this. Much worse.”
K watches me, his face unreadable.
“How long have I been here?” I ask.
“The sun has risen and set.”
A day? That’s impossible. Injuries don’t heal this fast without leaving a mark.
My thoughts race, searching for a rational explanation. Advanced medical treatment? Some kind of experimental technology? But there’s nothing here but stone walls, fire, and primitive amenities.
“I don’t understand,” I say softly. “This can’t be right. How could I heal so fast?”
“These mountains have… power,” he says, sticking to the man of mystery act.
For God’s sake. I’m not going to get anything out of him.
“My phone,” I say suddenly, patting around the makeshift bed. “I need my phone.”
Kay tilts his head. “Phone?”
“Yes, cell phone.” I mime holding one to my ear. “To call people? To figure out where the hell I am?”
“Cell phone,” he repeats, testing the word like he’s never said it before.
I stare at him. This guy is messing with me. Or he’s lived so far off the grid that he doesn’t know basic technology. Neither option seems plausible.
“Plastic,” I say, watching his reaction. “Small rectangle. Probably smashed in the crash, but—”
“Plastic,” he echoes, with that same careful pronunciation.
