“No, of course not.” My hands are shaking as they try to keep hold of the matches and canister. “But …”
“But what?”
I open my mouth, but once again, there are no words. I close it and look down at the matchbook in my palm. I try to focus on it instead of on the panicked thrumming of my heart. Or the way I’m struggling to breathe through the tightness in my throat.
No answer comes.
Sol opens the driver’s-side door and climbs into the truck. “Do what you think is best for you, Iris,” he says. “If you don’t trust me, so be it. But you’re not coming home unless you’ve completed the trial.”
My heart stops, and a painful lump rises in my throat as Iimagine watching the truck speed away, leaving me alone, in the dark, in a town I barely know. No car, no phone, no money. No one. I don’t know what I would do or where I would go. I’d be lost. Even more lost than I was when Lily found me last year.
So I walk back to the grocery store alone. There’s no point being hesitant. No point being nervous. Because the choice has been made. Not that there was ever a choice at all. Because I have to get back in that truck. I have to go home.
And, like Sol said, it’s not like I’ll be hurting anyone. Not physically, at least.
As I climb back through the broken window, I slice my hand on some broken glass. I don’t feel it. The world only consists of me, the crunch of my footsteps, the pulse of my heart in my ears, and the heavy canister in my hand.
I begin spilling a stream of gasoline, creating a trail down the cereal aisle and then up the canned goods aisle. It’s as if I am walking underwater, movements slow and heavy. With each step I hear Sol’s voice, telling me why this has to be done. I think of Marigold, the whispered name of a girl I never met, because she never finished her trials. Because she couldn’t stay.
My hand is slick with blood, and I’m struggling to keep hold ofthe canister as I finish the trail of oil. I cap it and head back to the window.
When I’m out on the sidewalk again, I open the matchbook and pull one out. I strike it, and suddenly the flame sparks to life. I freeze, staring at it, the faint heat warming my chilled hand. The intense smell of gasoline fills my nostrils. The reality of what I am about to do crushes like a stone on my chest and threatens to collapse my lungs.
There’s no turning back now.
And even if I could, I have nowhere else to go.
I take a deep breath and brace myself. Then I toss the match through the broken window.
The eruption of the flames racing along the path of gasoline and catching on the wooden shelves and cardboard cereal boxes is instant. But as hot as it burns, I feel frozen in place, shocked by what I’ve done. It is so dramatic, so colorful and dynamic, that I am almost convinced it isn’t real. That I’ve dreamed this whole thing and will wake up with Rose on our little mattresses in the attic.
Move!
That primal voice in my head—the one that screams ofdanger—pushes me out of my shock. I turn and bolt back toward the side street where Sol waits. The whip of the cold wind on my face as I run is enough to reassure me that I am definitely awake.
And that I’ve just committed arson.
I’m breathless by the time I reach the truck a few minutes later. Sol throws the door open for me, and as soon as I’m inside, the tires squeal as we peel out. We’re not even off the paved road yet when the night is pierced by the scream of the fire trucks. I glance in the rearview mirror, but all I can see is the fading flicker of light as we leave town.
“Well done!” Sol is saying as he drives us down the gravelly roads back into the hollow. “I knew you could do it, Iris. I’m so proud of you.” He glances over and grins at me. “You had me worried there for a moment, but— Iris? Oh no. Hold on, sweetheart.”
He slams on the brakes, coming to a harsh stop in the middle of the dirt road, maybe half a mile from the cabin. The wheels have barely stopped turning before I grab the handle and throw the door open, almost falling out onto the cold ground as I dry heave, my stomach too empty to produce anything worth vomiting up.
Solgets out of the truck and comes to rub my back while I retch. When my body has finally given up on expelling the shock from my guts, he helps me stand up. His grin is gone, replaced by a softer expression.
“Let’s go home,” he says .
I go straight to the shower as soon as we arrive back at the cabin. I crank the water as hot as I can, letting it scald my skin. I scrub until my flesh is raw. But nothing can get rid of the smell of gasoline and smoke.
I stay there until the water has run cold, and only then do I bandage my hand and reluctantly make my way upstairs. The moon has shifted now. It must be a little past three. We’ll all have to be up in less than three hours. But I can’t even imagine sleeping. My head is still spinning and my cut hand has finally started hurting and I feel as if I may start to dry heave again.
“Iris?”
For the second time that night, Rose says my name in that croaky, sleepy voice of hers, just as I’m slipping beneath my blanket.
I don’t look at her. I can’t. I don’t feel ready to look at anyone.I’m convinced that everything I’ve done, every thought I’ve had, will be smeared like dirt across my face. “Yeah, it’s me,” I murmur. “Go back to sleep.”
She must sense something. Maybe it’s in my voice. Or maybe the overpowering smell of the soap that I’ve just scrubbed my body with gives it away. But I feel her eyes on the back of my head for a moment before she asks, “Are you okay?”
