It feels like sludge evaporating, ice melting, fog fading…
It feels so much like freedom.
But it will come back.
It always comes back.
And I will needhimwhen it does.
He makes that clear when, in pure blackness, he snatches the inhaler right out of my hand.
A way to make sure I don’t run, maybe.
But this fae will work out soon enough that I’m stupid like that.
I won’t run.
Not until I have word from Bee.
I just hope he doesn’t notice the hunk of black metal hanging off my belt.
This radio is my only way of contacting her, my only hope of reuniting with her in this blackout.
The warrior can keep the inhaler—so long as he keeps his icy fucking hands off the CB.
SIX
Pure blackness blankets this world, and even after all the time I have spent in it, it never gets easier.
The chunk of a year.
That’s how long the blackout has darkened our world.
In all that time, all those months, the urge to look up at the sky and see the moon is still there.
The itch to lift my wrist and check the time on my smartwatch lingers, as if I’ll see an early morning hour glaring back at me, assuring me that the sun will rise soon, that I just woke up that bit too early, like I always did on the camping trips, but never did at home.
Even the instincts born of darkness are tempting me—to reach for my hip where my flashlight should dangle from my belt, or dig into my backpack for my head torch, that bright, glaring white light that straps to my head, but gives me one hell of a headache.
And all of that is made so much worse by walking blind in the blackout.
One foot in front of the other, hoping there’s no hole under the slushy snow, praying I don’t trip over a body, and putting all my faith into that warrior, the one on the other side of the tether, just a step to my side.
I can’t see him, can’t hear him, but I do occasionally lose my footing, my balance, and stumble into his solid arm, and it’s exactly how I imagine staggering into a stone statue would feel.
Like I needed anymore bruises to add to my collection.
I’m smeared in them.
Don’t need light or a moment’s rest to peel back my clothes and have a peek to know I am black and blue and purple all over.
Against the constant ache, I hold my tethered wrists out in front of me, a beat ahead of my steps, because even with the warrior’s guidance, I just can’t soften my instincts, my fear that I’ll walk right into a wall or fall off a cliff.
This walk goes onforever, and I’m blind for it. My eyes never stop straining, as though I’ll magically develop the ability to see in a blackout if I try hard enough, and the early buds of a headache are springing along my creased brow.
This has got to be more than just hours.
Maybe a day, a night, or even both combined.
