Ahead of us waits a large expanse of land—green and rich, trees swaying in the morning wind, shorebirds pecking along a rocky beach.
Clay stands beside me, breathing.
“You went to shore?” I ask, surprised he would risk it. Alone. In case we got separated. But we’re also starving—desperation likely drove him out to that enticing stretch of beach.
He nods. “Orchard trees, just up a little ways. Peaches an’ apples, even pears, I think.”
“Clay—” The word is an exhale, but the tears are falling, cascading down my cheeks. He folds me in his arms.
“Eat,” he says, nodding at the peach. “I wanted ye to have the first one.”
I bring it to my lips, but before my teeth can sink through the soft skin, there is movement in the distance. The shorebirds suddenly lift into the sky, erupting in a chorus of trills, scattering. From the tree line, a dog appears, sprinting into the open, tongue flapping, legs bounding happily like any canine who’s been set free on an expansive beach. It looks like a golden retriever, large and dopey, and it darts after the birds, but they’re already airborne.
A second later, something else emerges from the trees, from the same shaded opening in the evergreens.
A young boy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We are not alone.
Clay makes his way across the rocky inlet connecting the island to the shore, a handgun hidden at his waist, limping slightly. I watch from the grassy slope. The rifle at my side. The dog gallops to greet Clay first, tail swishing, head nudging into his palm. The boy waves at Clay, smiling—friendly. He can’t be more than eight or nine. And when they meet, the young boy—reddish-brown hair cut short, a good two feet shorter than Clay—holds out his hand, a formal greeting. They talk for several minutes, then the boy gestures to the trees.
Clay turns his head back to the island, to me, but he doesn’t wave.
Maybe he doesn’t want the boy to know I am here, that there is a woman waiting on the island. He remembers what happened last time.
He turns and follows the boy into the shadowed tree line.
I sit at the edge of the island, my heart racing, watching the trees, but as time passes, my body relaxes and I sink into the grass. I finally bite into the peach, greedily, the juice dripping down my fingers. And when I’ve sucked the pit clean, my stomach immediately wants more. One wasn’t enough. I pull dandelions from the soil, twirling them around my fingers before sticking them in my mouth. I never knew dandelionswere edible until Clay showed me. I never knew life could feel so perilous, so close to the knife’s edge, until I found myself on the island.
Tiptoeing toward the edge of death, I’ve never felt so alive.
It’s nearly an hour before Clay appears from the trees, something tucked under his arm. Slowly, he makes his way across the inlet, then climbs up the shore. I want to run to him, but I don’t have the strength.
When he reaches me, he holds out the thing he had been carrying.
“Bread,” he says, exhaustion in his eyes, relief. I bring the bread to my nose, breathing it in—sweet and dense with the scent of grain. “There’s people, Ellie. A community, up in the trees.” His eyes flash back to the shore.
“How many?”
“Couldnae tell. A hundred maybe.”
My head whirs, wanting to feel hope, but it’s fear that finds me first. “Is it safe?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Too soon to be sure. I talked to a man at the edge of their village. He seemed relieved to see me, said it’s been years since anyone new came to their shores.”
“What do we do now?”
“He wanted to know if we had anything to trade. I said we didnae have much.” He lets out a long breath, looks weak. “But he invited us to stay.”
Stay.A word that’s never had much meaning for us.
“Maybe we can trade for seeds, replant our garden, begin again,” he suggests.
I step closer to him, leaning into his chest, following his gaze to the shore. “Did they say where we are? Does this place have a name?”
He folds an arm around me. “Used to be part of the southern U.S. coast. The old name is lost to them now. But they call it St. Helena Harbor.”
