Her shoes are still damp with salt water, the soles filled with grit and sand. Her mangled hand, twisted hastily up in the hem of her shirt, held tight against her body—it’s still bleeding. Won’t stop. Her whole arm shakes.
But she’s not worried about that right now. She’s worried about the baby. The one she can hear crying, somewhere in the distance. She keeps pushing forward, one foot after the other, but the sound never gets closer.
“I’ll get him,” She mumbles into the hot California afternoon, through lips so chapped she can hardly feel them, “It’s my turn.”
“It’s okay,” Dina says, and she puts a hand on Ellie’s seizing, injured arm, “Go back to sleep. You had a hard day. Get some rest.”
“No,” Ellie barks it out in a rough, dry voice, “I’m fine. Let me get him.”
“Your hand is infected,” Dina says, keeping pace beside her, “It’s fucked up.”
“It’s fine,” Ellie says, and she can’t look right at Dina, because the sun is searing her eyes but if she looks away, if she tries to really see the woman, she’s going to have to admit that she’s not real. That Dina’s not there. That she’s alone.
And losing her fucking mind.
“This is bad, Ellie,” Dina says gently, and she sounds too young, like she did when Ellie first got to Jackson, when she was just a pushy show off who used to annoy Ellie—until she didn’t. Until, slowly, inch by inch—Ellie couldn’t live without her.
“Been through worse,” Ellie rasps.
But her arm has stopped hurting, and instead of being relieved, it only makes her more afraid.
“I don’t know,” Dina says it quietly, “This is really bad, Ellie.”
The toe of Ellie’s shoe catches in a rift of the asphalt and she stumbles, knees jamming against the hot street, and she just really, really wants to lay down for a minute.
Someone is screaming, from far away, so far away—from underwater. Just a sound of bubbles bursting against the surface of the waves and it’s her, Abby, screaming for mercy, for clemency, for life. But all Ellie wants to do is hold her under.
“Why?” Dina asks, sitting cross-legged on the asphalt next to her, “Why’d you let her go?”
Ellie can’t feel her arm. She’s so cold, all in an instant. She sits back against her heels, looks out along the long, barren stretch of road toward home, tries to find the words to explain. Her throat feels too tight.
“I don’t wanna lose you,” She says, just a ragged, barren whisper.
There’s quiet, nothing but the sound of a dry breeze in the palm leaves, and the distant, sleepy cry of that baby. Ellie’s head hurts. Everything hurts.
Ellie drags herself to her feet.
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