She’s on the bed, curled in a ball, knees up, face buried in her arms. The blanket is thrown to the floor. Her hair is loose, fanned across the pillow in a mess, her forehead is creased. She’s not moving, but her foot twitches every third breath.
The anxiety written in her face is infuriating. She should have let me help.
I kneel next to the mattress and reach out, touch the curve of her shoulder. Her skin is hot, almost fevered. She shudders, but doesn’t wake.
She needs to rest, so I sit on the floor and wait.
Twenty minutes pass. She never moves, but the cycle of her breath slows, the tremor in her legs goes still. I watch the sky lighten through the half-closed shade, wait for the first sparrow to startle her into consciousness.
She wakes hard. Her eyes go wide, then blank, then wide again when she sees me. She scrambles to sit up, yanking the pillow to her chest like a shield.
“What are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you. You wouldn’t let me in.”
She doesn’t answer. She just glares, holding the pillow like it’s the only thing that will keep her from shattering.
Finally, she says, “Yeah, cause I didn’t wanna see you.”
I shake my head. “That’s not going to be an option after tomorrow.”
She looks at the wall, at the evidence of her paranoia. “Are you going to kill me.”
“No. What the fuck?”
She laughs, a sound so brittle it’s almost a scream.
I stand, move to the side of the bed, and sit. There’s a line she draws between us, imaginary but impenetrable.
I reach into my backpack, pull out the white dress, and toss it onto the sheets between us. It lands in a heap, the fabric almost glowing in the pale light.
She stares at it. “What is this?”
“For the Hunt.”
She lets the dress sit, untouched, as if it might detonate.
I speak, low. “You have to wear it. It’s tradition. If you want to survive, you need to follow the rules. I picked it myself, so you won’t be too cold. And there’s shoes. The kind that sit against your skin and look like feet. Apparently they’re better for you than regular runners.”
She hugs the pillow tighter. “I don’t want to survive.”
“Liar.”
She meets my eyes, and there’s something wild there, something sharp. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you better than you think.”
She lets the dress slip to the floor. “You know what happens to the runners who fail, right?”
“I do.”
“Then why are you participating?”
I don’t have an answer. Not one I can say.
She laughs again, softer this time, almost pitying. “You’re not a hero, Colton. You’re just this Hunt’s monster they let off the leash.”
“Maybe,” I say, “but I’m the only one who cares if you make it out.”
