At the End of Everything, page 15
“She started coughing the day we left Hope, and Hunter and his cronies refused to let her come with.” All emotion disappears from Josie’s voice when she adds, “They suggested killing her, but I wouldn’t let them. They thought it would be more merciful—and safer for them.”
“That would be murder.” I might be angry at Josie, but I’m horrified by Hunter.
“I chose to stay behind with her. To take care of her, but her fever ran so high… I didn’t know what to do.”
“It could’ve killed you too,” Sofia says.
Josie juts out her jaw. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have wanted to survive on my own. Alone is not worth living.”
Behind her, Saoirse coughs and mumbles something.
Josie lowers her arms to glance back at her, and in the distraction of the moment, I dash forward and wrest the crowbar from her. She lets go of it with little to no resistance, and once I have it, she sits down hard. She glares at me with eyes as dark as the night. “We have as much a right to live as you do, you know.”
“At any cost? At the cost of our food? Emerson’s health? Do you even care what happened to them?” I drop the crowbar before I use it on her.
She shrugs. “I take care of my own. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
It is, and I hate it. I hate how much I understand her, now that I know she’s trying to keep Saoirse alive. It’s far easier to simply think of her as a villain.
I grit my teeth. “Saoirse needs medical care. We don’t have much to offer, but we do have some. We’ll take you both back to Hope.” I raise my voice before Sofia can interrupt me again. “We’ll figure out what to do with you there.”
Phone call between Mackenzi and her former best friend
MACKENZI: Look, I know this is awkward, especially after everything that happened. But…
MACKENZI: I can’t get ahold of my dad? And I know he usually works long hours, but I also can’t imagine there’s a lot of demand for home improvement right now, you know?
MACKENZI: I just want to know he’s okay. And yours is the only other phone number I still know by heart.
GWEN: Fuck, Mackenzi.
GWEN: I don’t know what you want me to say.
MACKENZI: Tell me he’s okay?
GWEN: I can’t.
MACKENZI: Oh.
GWEN: For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. [cough]
GWEN: He was a good man. He didn’t deserve this. None of us do.
This phone call has been disconnected.
Phone call between Isaiah and Better Futures
BETTER FUTURES: You’ve reached Better Futures. Our offices are closed until further notice. Please leave a message, and we will try to get back to you as soon as we can.
ISAIAH: Hi, this is Isaiah Wood. I’ve called before from the Hope Juvenile Treatment Center. I’ve tried to email too. You probably won’t hear this either, but…we’re still here. Please don’t forget about us.
This phone call has been disconnected.
Nineteen
Logan
Emerson moans in their sleep. They refuse to wake up. Too many people close their eyes and never open them around here, and I hate it. I hate it. I want my friends back. I want my sister back. I don’t want to be alone here. I need them.
If I hadn’t woken up early this morning, I would never have caught Josie. If I hadn’t caught Josie, we would never have fought. If we hadn’t fought, I would never have had to make noise for help. If I hadn’t made noise, Emerson wouldn’t have come, they wouldn’t have tried to help, they wouldn’t lie here like this.
Is this what it feels like when everything is crumbling? It’s the same ache I felt before the fire. I hate it.
“Logan?”
Nia stands in the door to Emerson’s room. She keeps her distance, which I try to do too, but someone needed to help Casey carry Emerson here. Someone needed to help splint their wrist.
Outside, rain’s starting to tick against Emerson’s window. Nothing more than a gentle trickle, and I stare at the patterns formed by the droplets.
“You need to eat. It’s past lunchtime.”
I half turn to her. Release my hands. “I’m okay.”
Nia takes a tender step toward me. She’s holding on to something in a paper napkin. “No, you’re not. None of us are, but you need to eat. Did you drink anything?”
I wince. “You sound like Leah when you say that.”
She frowns as she follows my signs, but I know she recognizes the sign for my sister, and she can figure out the rest from there. The corners of her eyes crinkle. “Well, she’s right. And she would want you to take care of yourself too.”
I scoff. “Fine. But we’ll need to make more bread soon.”
She holds out the napkin to me, and when I rise to grab it, she smiles. I unwrap it; it has a raccoon sandwich inside. The remainders of our meat with the last bread we have. Still, it smells good, and my stomach growls. I easily forget how hungry I am when my mind is occupied with other things, but when I take a bite, I don’t know how to stop. I scarf down the food.
“Better, right?”
“Smells…good…”
I swirl around. In the bed, Emerson blinks. Their eyes don’t focus on me, or on anything for that matter, but they turn their head toward the two of us—
And immediately wince. “Ouch. Hurts.”
“Are you okay?” I step closer toward them.
They raise their hand to their head, and the movement alone makes them look a paler shade of green. I dash out of the way in time before they vomit on the floor. It isn’t much—bile, mostly—but Nia immediately retches too. She says, “I’ll go…grab some cleaning supplies.”
Watching Emerson to see if they’ll let me, I reach out and push their hair out of their face. I’ve done this for Leah before too, even though Emerson’s hair is much shorter.
They moan. “God, it hurts.”
They lean into my hand a little, and I can see them slowly registering my presence. It’s different but familiar. They’re out of it because they had their head bashed in, and they probably have a concussion. But I recognize what it feels like when the world is too much, too overwhelming, and when you can’t connect with everything around you.
With their healthy arm, Emerson carefully reaches up to squeeze my hand and push it away.
“Logan… How are you?”
I crouch so I’m at eye level with them. I can’t tell them I’m okay—or not okay, as Nia would tell me—but I manage a smile.
“What happened?”
I can’t answer that with a smile. I don’t know how to answer it.
“How do you feel?” Nia leans against the door opening. She’s wearing bright-yellow gloves and carrying a bucket with water and cleaning supplies. She indicates with her head, and I get out of the way so she can move past me and clean up the bile.
She answers Emerson’s questions where I can’t. She tells them about Josie, about running into me when I went to get Grace. She tells Emerson what happened to them. I take over her place in the door opening, and I wish I could do all the talking for me. Or not even the talking, necessarily, but the explaining. I wish it were easier for people to understand what Leah does, what Nia does: there are many different ways to communicate.
Emerson clears their throat and catches my eye. “Thank you…for finding help.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. I’m sorry I—” I don’t know what else to say.
Nia squints at me and shakes her head. “It wasn’t your fault, you know?” She turns back to Emerson. “Thank you for helping Logan. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her in the kitchens.”
She’s wrong. It was my fault. But her words feel good. They feel right. I’ve never felt wanted before, not by anyone who wasn’t Leah, and she is a part of me. I like being in the kitchen with Nia. It may not be quite the same as a place to belong, but it’s a place where I can make myself useful and where I understand the world around me.
I’m glad she feels the same way too.
Emerson lets themself lean back on their pillow, and they bring their broken wrist up to their chest. They close their eyes. “What about…the food?”
What about the fact that we were both near Emerson? If they were infected at any point dealing with our dead—are we too? What will happen then? With so few of us here, it’s becoming harder and harder to keep our distance in times of need, but we can’t afford to lose anyone else.
We can’t afford to lose Emerson.
And I don’t want to get sick.
Nia shrugs. “We’ll figure something out. The most important thing is for you to feel better first.”
And that is something I can help with. I tap the doorframe so Nia looks up, and I tell her, “I’m going to check in with Casey. See what we need to do to help Emerson.”
She smiles. “Good plan.”
* * *
When I leave Emerson’s room again, I pass the common areas on my way to infirmary. It’s busier here than it normally is at this time of day, though busy doesn’t mean what it meant three weeks ago. All of us together can barely fill a room now.
I push my back against the wall to avoid bumping into anyone.
The hallway is alive with whispers and questions.
“Do you know what happened?”
“I hear she stabbed Emerson.”
“She stole our food and destroyed the rest.”
“She must have been working for Hunter.”
To my side, obscured by the angle of the hallway, I overhear a conversation between Riley and Khalil.
“I always knew she was dangerous.”
“Yeah, you’re one to talk.”
“Hey!”
“It’s true though, isn’t it?”
I stand on tiptoe and crane my neck to be able to look over and past them and Isaiah, though I know what I’ll find.
Josie.
I expect to feel fear or revulsion, and I do. My breath catches. My hands go up to my throat to make sure no one is clinging to me. I don’t want her to look at me. I don’t want her to get close to me. I don’t want to be a target.
But another part of me sees that her hands are shaking. She has her head down, arms wrapped around her waist. She has a few stray leaves in her damp hair. Her shoulders are pulled up almost to her ears, and she walks forward without looking at anyone. I can’t tell if she’s angry or scared, determined or desperate. Maybe she’s all of the above.
She must hear the whispered accusations too, feel several pairs of eyes on her, because she stumbles.
“C’mon, keep moving!” That’s Grace’s voice, though it’s slightly muffled. She sounds tired. When she enters through the door, Khalil and Riley immediately take a few steps back.
Grace is supporting a pale and coughing Saoirse. Saoirse’s face is drained of color, and it makes her hair and her freckles only stand out further, and her head lolls back and forth. She doesn’t seem to be particularly conscious, only propped up by Grace on one side and Sofia on the other. Grace and Sofia are pale too—and weathered.
Everyone steps back, but Mackenzi steps directly into Josie’s path. She plants her fists in her sides. “You brought the plague back to us, you thief. They should’ve left you out there to starve.”
“Get out of the way,” Sofia grumbles. “Josie, keep walking.”
Mackenzi doesn’t budge. She faces off against Josie, while the others pass through to get Saoirse to the infirmary as quickly as possible.
I edge farther back alongside the wall. Riley looks furious. Isaiah clenches and unclenches his hands. Even Casey comes out to look, though he’s tired and worn.
Josie pushes through, her face obscured, but Mackenzi steps in her path again and shoulder checks her. Josie immediately brings her fists up and pushes back. In return, someone else shoves her forward.
Grace shouts, “Stop it!” but it doesn’t change anything. The hallways are narrow, and everyone is exhausted. Riley steps in to help Mackenzi, and everything escalates. Josie ducks her head to avoid the punches. Grace and Sofia push through with a sick Saoirse. Khalil tries to hold Riley back.
I don’t want to be here.
We stuck together and managed to keep each other safe as much as possible over the past few weeks, more so than any of us could’ve hoped for, and I don’t want to lose that.
Sofia whistles so hard, I flinch. “All of you, get back! Now!”
Khalil and Riley straighten, like it’s one of the guards yelling at them. Isaiah holds Mackenzi back.
Josie ducks past everyone, her arms raised up to cover her face.
“We’ll figure out what to do with Josie—with all of this—later,” Grace says.
“Judge her?” Mackenzi demands.
Grace scowls. “Let us pass, and go do something useful.”
“She brought the plague back to us!”
With four of us still sick, it never left.
This isn’t it. We can’t be the ones who judge Josie. We’re all screwups too.
It’s not like Leah and I meant to kill anyone either, but we nearly did. Out of fear and anger. Because we were lost and didn’t know what else to do. Because we were fighting to protect each other, and how different is that for Josie, really? Especially if she was fighting to keep Saoirse safe?
It took me the better part of six months to get our own trip to the courtroom out of my system. Every night it would be the first thing I saw after I closed my eyes. The wood-paneled walls. The eyes of the guards on us. The whispers of the people around us. The feeling of dread and fear like an abyss inside me, and the knowledge that every single one of the people around us—from guards to visitors to journalists—judged us. Not by who we are or were, but by what others said we did. They judged us by the mistakes we made, the worst parts of us, the desperation that drove us, but not a single one of them listened to our full story. I learned that day that if there are many ways to communicate, there are equally as many ways to silence someone.
No one knew how afraid I was. How angry and hurt Leah was. No one offered us help when we had to leave Granddad’s home. No one offered us help when we had no place to stay. No offered us help when we needed it.
I don’t want to extend that same cruelty to others.
We should know better.
We don’t have the moral standing to judge anyone.
I bow my head. I keep my gaze firmly on my feet and the little bit of floor in front of me, and I walk away from here. No longer to Casey, because Casey will need to help Saoirse.
Emerson needs me.
With so few of us left, we need each other. We all need each other. I’ll find Isaiah when things quiet down and ask him if the internet still works. Maybe he can figure out what we need to do with Emerson’s concussion or their broken wrist. Maybe there are things we should be mindful of.
Maybe I can’t fix everything, but I want to find a way to fix something.
Twenty
Grace
After Saoirse is settled in the infirmary and we’ve found a place to keep an eye on Josie, everyone gathers in the cafeteria to discuss our options. It’s full-on raining outside, the rain tapping rhythmically against the window and the wind rattling the roof as a constant backdrop to the conversations going on around me.
There are so few of us left. Casey. Sofia. Logan. Khalil. Nia. Riley. Isaiah. Mackenzi. Me. And Emerson, but they’re in their own room, sleeping off their concussion. Logan and Nia are taking turns walking over there and waking them up.
Leah and Isabella and Jeremy and Xavier. All of them in various stages of consciousness and unconsciousness.
We count sixteen if we add Josie and Saoirse—sixteen out of thirty-one—though goodness knows how long Saoirse will last. Or if we should add Josie.
I don’t want either of them here. It’s not right. But—
I hate how much I understand where she’s coming from. It would be so much easier to act in anger and not consider the consequences of my rash actions. It would be so much easier too to let the collective frustration of the group deal with Josie.
“What do you want to do with Josie?” Nia asks me. She sits near the doorway, clutching her sketchbook. Her fingers are wrapped so tight around her pencil, I can see the outline of her bones underneath her skin. She’s dragged a blanket to the room and has wrapped it around her shoulders.
“We need some kind of justice,” Riley says. It’s not the first time she said it. It probably won’t be the last time. She has a cut over her eyebrow and a steely look in her eyes.
“What would that even look like?” Casey asks. He’s leaning against the corner in the far side of the room. Everyone else keeps their distance from him, like they do from Sofia and me now. Effectively, we all keep our distance from each other.
Riley shrugs. “I don’t know. We’ll give her a chance to defend herself and then—”
“What?” Sofia has her hands wrapped around a mug of steaming-hot tea. For all the things we don’t have, we have an extraordinary amount of tea from the guards’ station. Hopefully that’ll keep us going throughout the winter, especially since we’re quickly running out of instant coffee.
“We’ll throw her out, for all I care,” Mackenzi’s voice is low and livid. “She didn’t want to be here, right? She can figure out her own way.” She came up to me after we brought Saoirse to the infirmary, angry beyond words, and she hasn’t calmed down yet. She’s shaking.
