Their tires kick up dust two miles down as the car halts in front of a tattered old stuffed bear in the middle of the road.
The same one he saw peeking out of that box in the attic.
Emma is close. She’s here. They can’t stop now.
That’s the last thought he has before everything goes dark.
Chapter 7
She’s in a car with Wyatt passed out beside her, and all she can do is stare at the bear in the road. Emma asked for one after seeing them in the attic, which makes this the biggest windfall they’ve had so far.
Wyatt refuses to wake even after she jostles him on the shoulder, so she rushes out to pick up that mud-covered animal. Very pointedlydoes notthink about what it could mean if he doesn’t wake up. If she stops to consider the worst outcome, it’ll overwhelm her, so she focuses on something tangible.
They have a car now. She can rush back in if more rotters show up, so she bellows Emma’s name at the top of her lungs, turning in hopeful circles to scan the tree line, certain this nightmare will end any second.
Newfound hope dwindles again when the bear doesn’t produce the girl who held it.
Addison doesn’t crumble yet. A snowball of anxiety, ready to flourish, builds in her chest, but she ignores it and returns to the car.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers on a hitching breath.
Should she drive further out? Hike into the woods? Go back home?
Leaving now with the possibility of Emma being so close feels foolish, but Wyatt is hurt. She holds a hand under his nose, waiting for the soft flutter of his breath on her skin.
“Please wake up. Please. I need you to tell me what to do.”
The sob caught in her throat threatens to escape if she’s not careful. That won’t help anyone. At the moment, she’s steering this ship alone.
The stab wound in his side has clotted, though his leg still bleeds when she pulls the cloth away to check. She can’t make it out here without help. Beyond that…she’s grown fond of Wyatt. The concept of him not being around anymore is difficult to grasp, and she finds herself mourning him before he’s even gone.
It’s the least productive thing she’s done all day. He’s still alive, but she’s already distraught for numerous reasons. Adding another to the list is a comforting choice.
“Please wake up,” she says again, cupping his stubbled cheek with a desperate touch, knowing he’d hate that if he were awake.
He’d tell her to stop fussing while claiming that he doesn’t need help. She’d give anything to hear him complain again. That would mean he’s okay, and she has serious doubts that he will be.
If he’s complaining, then he can help her figure out what the fuck to do. She’s frozen in indecision. His wounds need cleaning to prevent infection, that much she’s certain of. She isn’t a doctor. Her TV viewing history didn’t feature many of those either. She can’t rely on second-hand knowledge for this like she did with the Molotovs.
Searching the treeline one last time, her hands squeeze the steering wheel tight.
With no further hints of Emma, the only logical choice is to focus on the person bleeding, so she aims them in the direction of the house. That doesn’t stop her from feeling like she’s abandoning her child. Can’t shake the sense of dread that giving up could cost her any hope of success. Addison has never beenin a position to make all the decisions. Now that power is thrust upon her, she’s crumbling under the weight of it.
One thing at a time. Tend to Wyatt’s injuries first, then take the car back out to search for Emma. It’s already been a week. If her daughter is out there starving, she could be wasting away.
If she’s hurt and scared, then she’ll be hurt and scared another night.
If she’s crying for her mother, she’ll be forced to wait again.
Addison doesn’t focus on any of that. If she does, she’ll sit here paralyzed.
She grabs the bear off the dashboard when they park in the driveway and tries to rouse Wyatt at the passenger side. He’s difficult to wake, and that only scares her more. If he has any intention of dying today, then he had better abandon that idea altogether because she won’t stand for it.
She’s gentle at first, patting his cheek with a soft hand and shaking his shoulder. When that doesn’t work, the frustration edging her toward an emotional spiral gets the better of her. “Wyatt! Wake up, dammit!”
She’s not angry, only worried. He flinches back, his hands coming up to protect his face on reflex.
“I’m up. I’m awake,” he mumbles.
