Chapter Ten
Grace
Gentle fingers press to my neck. “Can you open your eyes, Nova?” The voice is quiet. Kind.
I force my heavy lids to move, but can’t make sense of what I see. I’m back in my room. Outside the window, snow falls steadily. How did I get here? The last thing I remember is trying to open an MRE with bound, shaking hands while the deafening vibrations tore me apart.
I don’t know how long it took for my body to stop feeling like mine. Hours? A day? I couldn’t even work the rope free from my wrists.
The torturous sound never let up. Or…did it? Every time I tried to move more than a few inches, I passed out. Sometimes, I thought I heard Prophet whispering. Promising me the pain would end if I’d just let go. I…almost believed him.
The man leaning over me looks so much like Prophet, I whimper until I see his full head of white hair.
“Shhh.” He tucks the blanket up to my chin with such gentleness, I want to cry. “You’re safe for now. I won’t hurt you. Your fever was a hundred and three when my son finally let me check on you. It’s down to a hundred now.”
“Your…son?” The words take every ounce of strength I have. My cheek aches, but that’s nothing compared to the pain in my shoulders. My legs. My wrists. My heart.
“I’m Abe,” he says quietly. “Prophet Zeke is my son.”
For three days, Abe brings me meals and sits with me. I’m too weak to leave the bed. Too humiliated when I need his help to use the bed pan. Too broken to do anything more than stare out the window at the falling snow.
He treated the infected slice to my cheek, dressed the rope burns around my wrists, the gouges on my legs and back. He told me my knees were so damaged, I’d never run again. I sobbed like a child in his arms.
If Prophet hadn’t let Abe check on me after eight days, I’d be dead now. The fever would have killed me. I think…I wish it had.
Abe sets a tray on my lap. Creamy potato soup and crusty bread. I don’t move. My hands shake. They always shake now.
“You should have let me die.”
Is that a tear shining on his cheek? Kindness in this place can’t be trusted. I’ve learned that lesson a hundred times over. But God help me, I’m so starved for it.
I lost myself in that fucking box. Exhausted, injured, with mud caking my skin and fingers so numb, I could barely rip a single pouch open, I begged for death. Prayed for it.
I even started reciting parts of the Doctrine. I told myself if Prophet heard me, he’d have mercy, but I knew that was a lie.
The box broke me. I wanted to believe in the Glorious One. In everything Prophet wrote in his manifesto. And toward the end…I think I did.
Abe presses his ear to the door for a moment before his shoulders relax. “Brother Malone is talking to my grandson.”
I stare at the soup, terrified of saying the wrong thing—of saying anything at all.
“Nova—” Abe grits his teeth hard enough I can hear them grinding together. “What’s your real name?”
“Nova, Brother Abe,” I say automatically.
“That’s not the truth, and you know it.” Leaning closer, he drops his voice to a fierce whisper. “I can’t save you. I wish I could. You’re Nova now, and my son will sacrifice you at the next blue moon. But you were someone else once, and I want to know who she was.”
“Why, Brother Abe?” The words burn my throat.
“Because someone should remember her name when she dies.”
Abe swipes at his eyes, but a few tears escape his sleeve. “And I’m not anyone’s brother. When no one’s around, you can call me ‘Abe.’”
He holds out his hand like he wants to shake. Oh, God. He does.
“Hello. I’m Abe. And you are?”
My whole arm trembles. I try not to look at the blood-stained bandage around my wrist.
