I’m still sprinting after Warner and, in a move that surprises absolutely no one, he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t even slow down. In fact, I’m pretty sure he speeds up.
I realize, as I pick up the pace, that I haven’t felt fresh air in a couple of days. I look around as I go, trying to take in the details. The sky is bluer than I’ve ever seen it. There’s no cloud in sight for miles. I don’t know if this weather is unique to the geographical location of Sector 241, or if it’s just regular climate change. Regardless, I take a deep breath. Air feels good.
I was getting claustrophobic in the dining hall, spending endless hours with the ill and injured. The colors of the room had begun to bleed together, all the linen and ash-colored cots and the too-bright, unnatural light. The smells were intense, too. Blood and bleach. Antiseptic. It was making my head swim. I woke up with a massive headache this morning—though, to be fair, I wake up with a massive headache almost every morning—but being outside is beginning to soothe the ache.
Who knew.
It’s nice out here, even if it’s a little hot in this outfit. I’m wearing a pair of old fatigues I found in my room. Sam and Nouria made sure from the start that we had everything we needed—even now, even after the battle. We have toiletries. Clean clothes.
Warner, on the other hand—
I squint at his retreating figure. I can’t believe he still hasn’t taken a shower. He’s still wearing Haider’s leather jacket, but it’s practically destroyed. His black pants are torn, his face still smudged with what I can only imagine is a combination of blood and dirt. His hair is wild. His boots are dull. And somehow—somehow—he still manages to look put together. I don’t get it.
I slow my pace when I pull up next to him, but I’m still power walking. Breathing hard. Beginning to sweat.
“Hey,” I say, pinching my shirt away from my chest, where it’s starting to stick. The weather is getting weirder; it’s suddenly sweltering. I wince upward, toward the sun.
Here, within the Sanctuary, I’ve been getting a better idea of the state of our world. News flash: The earth is still basically going to shit. The Reestablishment has just been taking advantage of the aforementioned shit, making things seem irreparably bad.
The truth, on the other hand, is that they’re only reparably bad.
Ha.
“Hey,” I say again, this time clapping Warner on the shoulder. He shoves off my hand with so much enthusiasm I nearly stumble.
“Okay, listen, I know you’re upset, but—”
Warner suddenly disappears.
“Hey, where the hell are you going?” I shout, my voice ringing out. “Are you heading back to your room? Should I just meet you there?”
A couple of people turn to stare at me.
The normally busy paths are pretty empty right now because so many of us are still convalescing, but the few people lingering in the bright sun shoot me dirty looks.
Like I’m the weirdo.
“Leave him alone,” someone hisses at me. “He’s grieving.”
I roll my eyes.
“Hey—douche bag,” I shout, hoping Warner’s still close enough to hear me. “I know you love her, but so do I, and I’m—”
Warner reappears so close to my face I nearly scream. I take a sudden, terrified step backward.
“If you value your life,” he says, “don’t come near me.”
I’m about to point out that he’s being dramatic, but he cuts me off.
“I didn’t say that to be dramatic. I didn’t even say it to scare you. I’m saying it out of respect for Ella, because I know she’d rather I didn’t kill you.”
I’m quiet for a full second. And then I frown.
“Are you fucking with me right now? You’re definitely fucking with me right now. Right?”
Warner’s eyes go flinty. Electric. That scary kind of crazy.
“Every single time you claim to understand even a fraction of what I’m feeling, I want to disembowel you. I want to sever your carotid artery. I want to rip out your vertebrae, one by one. You have no idea what it is to love her,” he says angrily. “You couldn’t even begin to imagine. So stop trying to understand.”
