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000.154.04.45.00

Thump. The impact sends Jude tumbling backward.

In a state of panic, thought comes to me clearer than a polished window.

Jude is shot.

I am next.

I dive under the water and propel myself toward a clump of cattails, trying to drag Jude with me. Adrenaline steals my breath. These bushes won’t stop a bullet. We’re like cougars trapped in our own den.

I come above the water for breath, tense and praying, waiting for the bullet to find me. God, please protect us. I know I won’t die, but the placement of this bullet could mean the death of many other things—movement, thinking, consciousness, personality, walking . . .

Splashing startles me as Jude flails in the water.

“You’re alive!” I reach for him and he grabs my hand like I’m his only hope. Thank you, God!

I pull him toward me and glance at the cliffside, terrified of seeing the barrel of the pistol again. But the stranger is gone, and his weapon with him.

“Time to go,” Jude hisses, yanking me to my feet.

“Where’s the shooter?” I remain in a crouch. “Is he hiding? Don’t move!”

Jude pulls me up the canyon anyway. “Come on, Parvin.”

It’s hard to flee when we’re in a death cage. Bullets could beat us in any race, but, as we run through deep water, none seem up for competition. The air is calm. No gunpowder explodes from the canyon edge.

“The food!” I slow.

“No time.”

But I’m not willing to let it go. We run a few yards before I look behind at the tin still floating, half-filled with water.

I turn back.

“No!” But Jude makes no move to stop me.

I dump the water from the tin, shove the floating potatoes back in, and run with forced movement back to him. Jude’s panic seems to have lessened, but he’s paler than Willow.

I gasp. Willow. That man said he found her. Did he kill her?

Blood flows from Jude’s upper right arm. He’s shaking. Once he moves forward again, he stumbles.

“Stop.” I lay my hand on his shoulder. “We need to make sure you’re okay.”

I lead him to the wall of the canyon, where he leans his back against it and squeezes his eyes tight. Blood blocks me from seeing the severity of the wound. I rinse it with some Dregs water. Jude doesn’t protest. In the brief moment when the blood is thinned with water, I see the hole above the crook of his elbow, interrupting the fluid movement of his snake tattoo.

“God . . .” He puts his hand over his face. “O God . . .”

I can tell by Jude’s voice that he’s praying. I keep my own voice calm. “It’ll be okay.”

He just shakes his head. His shoulders move in small jerks like he’s crying but won’t let me hear.

An ache threatens to clinch my beating heart. It’s okay, Jude. I’m here.

I unwind the bandage from around the wolf scratches on my left arm. They’re almost healed now and no longer need covering. I rinse them in the Dregs and squeeze the wad of cloth against my chest to wring it out. Then I wrap his upper arm.

He groans. “What will I do? He didn’t kill me.”

“Thank God, then. You’ll heal. I know you will. I’ll get you out of here.” Get him out of here? What am I saying? How will I get him out? I can’t even get myself out.

His left arm grips my wrist. “Your dagger.” He looks at me with his red-rimmed black eyes. “You have to use it to get the . . . the bullet out.”

I step back. “I can’t do that.”

“You have to!” He straightens.

I stumble away. “No!”

His ferocity leaves him in a flash and his hand covers his anguished face again. I finish the bandage with trembling fingers, tucking the end into a fold since I can’t tie it. I steel myself to be strong.

“It’s okay.” I take his hand. “Let’s keep going. God will give us a way out.”

Funny how, when someone else is cracking, my faith seems to bloom. I know God will get us out because I’m going to live five more months. He also kept Jude from getting shot in the head. We will get out.

In a brief moment, Jude’s hand slides out of my grasp and his fingers touch the side of my face. I look down, unsure why he’s touching me. His hand moves to my shoulder and pulls me into a tentative hug. He’s trembling.

The tension flows from my muscles and I release a thick breath. He sighs, too, and then takes my hand again. We push onward with renewed energy and multiplied questions.

I lead, and we both scan the canyon edges for movement. My heart continues to pump so fast I feel sick, but I’m strong—assigned to protect Jude. I will be strong for us. For him.

I squint at cracks in the canyon wall, trying to locate a hiding place in case the shooter returns. This worries me most. If he reappears, we are still helpless trapped targets.

Jude calms after an hour, but I hesitate to ask him the many questions running through my mind. Why did this man shoot Jude and leave? Did he really encounter Willow? If so, did he kill her or just use her information? Is she on his side? Was all of this a conspiracy?

Jude didn’t seem surprised by the shooter. Why would this man let Jude live if he’d decided to shoot him? “Jude . . . who was that man?”

He trudges in silence. I look over at him and he just shakes his head.

“You expected to be killed. Why is someone after you?”

“No, Parvin,” he says in a choked voice. “I didn’t know. I don’t . . . I need to think a while.”

I bite my tongue. “Okay.” Storm clouds rumble overhead, sending gusts that shake the cattail stalks. Our coats do little to protect from the increasing chill. Jude clutches his arm and moans every few minutes, making me wish I had white pills to ease his pain.

The rain starts in small sheets. I know enough about the weather to accept that this will be the most uncomfortable day in the Dregs. If the clouds have built in the morning, they will likely last through the day and night. But I can’t stop the scratchy squeal that comes out of my throat. “Water!”

Jude and I split the soggy bread and potatoes, hoping the digestion will keep us a little warmer and more energized. Then I hold out the canister to gather rainwater.

I’m still confused by the provided food. If the shooter intended to kill us, why sacrifice his food? Then again, Jude said the man chose not to kill him.

For a wild moment, I wonder if the food is poisoned. I swallow hard and turn to Jude. He pops the last bite of his potato into his mouth. I suppress my suspicion. If the food is deadly, it’s too late to get it out of our systems. Besides, no matter what Reid wrote, I hold to the belief that I still have five months.

The sky darkens so much it looks like evening and the rain grows to painful drops. The canister is full in minutes and we slurp the cool liquid in relief. It coats my throat, soothes my stomach. I can’t get enough.

But Jude makes me slow down. “You’ll be sick if you drink too much.”

“Okay.” We fill the canister again and then close it. Jude shoves it in my pack for later.

Now that we are no longer thirsty, the storm turns into less of a blessing. It’s cold. Hard. Loud. God, is this necessary? Do You see us at all, or do the Dregs keep us from view? Where is Your protection? Calm this rain!

The storm roars louder and louder, like a rushing river. My arms shake, though whether from cold or concern, I can’t say.

“Jude . . .” My voice quivers and I reach back for his hand. “The storm is too fierce.”

“What?”

I turn so he can hear me better. His hand is pressed against his wound and he’s shaking like a shaved cat in winter. I long more than ever for Ash’s white pills.

I repeat myself as loud as possible. “The storm is too fierce! Maybe we should stop!” He’s in a lot of pain. We should definitely stop.

But what good will stopping do? That won’t alleviate the rain or his suffering.

His lips move, but I hear no response. He’s looking hard into my face and gesturing with his free hand, but I might as well have cotton in my ears.

Suddenly his hand grips mine, crushing my fingers. I jump and jerk my hand away. He stares past me with dilated eyes. I spin around, expecting to see the shooter on the canyon edge, but instead I have a single second to register an eight-foot wall of water barreling down the canyon.

I have no time to take a breath. It slams us to the floor like a train. Broken cattail stalks jab my cheek and forehead. My lungs burn as water fingers tear my body in separate directions. Sticks slap me. I tumble.

Up! Up! Up! My mind screams and I thrash against the torrent. I break the surface and, in my desperation for air, gulp two lungfuls of water. Before I can cough it out, a sweep of water shoves me under, throwing me about like a leaf in a tornado. My chest convulses, wanting to cough and breathe at the same time.

A fist of water slams my body into hard rock. I push away from it with my feet, battling it like a boxer. The force propels me upward. In the moment my face meets the air; instead of taking a breath, I retch. Then comes the oxygen—sweet, sublime oxygen.

I seem to have undergone most of the thrashing and now ride the flood with my one good hand, like a bull-rider. The waters propel me back down the canyon Jude and I spent so many days traveling up—back toward the albinos.

Why, God? Why must this flood undo all we’ve struggled for?

My coat and pack snag this way and that on nothing but force. I fight to keep them on my body. Already a weak swimmer, I kick madly to stay afloat. My left arm flies through the water with each paddle, useless and thin.

I slam into the bends of the curvy canyon like a rag doll. No matter how I fight, I’m under the will of the devil water. It tears my boots from my feet one after the other. My hair swirls around my neck and sticks to my face, blocking my sight. Bandages around my calf loosen and tangle my legs together.

When I round another corner, something slams into me from behind, knocking my forehead against the canyon wall. Fingers grip my hair and an arm wraps in one of my pack straps.

Jude.

Even in the midst of drowning, relief provides another gasp of air. We are linked. He’ll help us. He’s a survivor.

His kicks are forceful and keep us above water, though we’re still subjected to the whim of the flood. His hand releases my hair and a moment later it wraps a rope around my middle.

“Help me!” he shouts.

We spend several seconds underwater, allowing the flood to hammer us as we fumble with the rope. I don’t know how it manages to wind its way around us both, but Jude kicks us back above water and yells, “Okay!” in my ear. I trust he considers it secure.

After another curve, we slide along the right side of the canyon where the water is a little slower. I hate the helplessness consuming me as I watch my own strength fall short. My life is out of my control. If the flood continues to flow much longer, I’ll surely drown. Already, my body aches with exhaustion.

Without warning, we stop with a jerk. The rushing water flows over my head. I can’t breathe. The rope tightens with a pinch. We’re snagged on something. It’s going to drown us. Jude is screaming one word over and over. I can’t make it out.

My body pounds against the canyon wall like a wild fishing bobber. I push against the smooth stripped rock with my feet until my head gains more height and I take a decent breath. Jude is still screaming and I make out his word.

“Cli . . . ! C . . . mb! Climb!”

I glance behind me to see what he means, but water douses my face. I reach back, groping the slick canyon wall for handholds.

His shout changes. “R . . . pe! Climb . . . ope!”

What rope? Then my hand finds it—a grainy, thick, woven rope to which Jude clings. We’re at the beginning where we first fell into the Dregs. The water’s risen so much we can now reach the cut tightrope anchored to the top.

But climb?

God, this strength is beyond me!

I grip the rope tight and pull myself toward it, against the pounding water. My muscles quiver. I gain a few inches of height— enough to gasp a full breath, but my arm shakes.

Jude plants his feet against the canyon wall and pushes. His body suspends above the water like a board. He is free of the torrent, but we are still tied together. I cling to the tail of the rope with limp muscles. My stump slides helplessly when I try to use both hands.

Stupid arm!

Jude releases the rope with one hand, grabs my elbow, and pulls me higher. “Put your arms around me!”

I kick against the wall to position myself, but the current sweeps my feet away again and again. The rope around us is too constricting. I can’t maneuver.

Throwing control to the wind, I wrap my stump around Jude’s chest and release the rope. In the moment when I fall, I grip his coat with my right hand and manage to hold on. The rope holds us tighter than my flimsy muscles.

I guide my feet above the water and onto the side of the canyon. Then Jude climbs. Hand over hand he ascends, walking up the wall. I cling to him, shuffling up the wall behind him like a vertical piggyback ride.

His entire body trembles. Blood flows again from his arm. The bandage is gone. Any second, he’ll fall.

God, strengthen him. If ever I needed a miracle, it’s now.

My legs burn and my arms fill with weights.

One more step.

I’m not breathing, riddled with confusing emotions—desperate, painful hope for freedom and sickening fear of the flood.

Just one more step.

My foot slips an inch. Jude stops the ascent. Keep going, I urge. His body moves, feeble and spent.

“One more!” I gasp.

Jude flops an arm over the slanted, water-smoothed edge. He pushes. The rope goes slack. Our feet flail and I link my leg on the rope mount. Sheer survival adrenaline—and possibly the nudge of an angel—hoists us over.

At last, our bodies drag in the first burning breath of freedom.