The Glass Arrow(16)

Below the surface my fingers scratch something solid. Plastic. I clear away the surrounding dirt and find a water bottle like the one I’m drinking from. I remove it and give it a shake, then smile when the contents inside rattle.

I’ve stored some items within that I might need for my escape. Ten or so meal pills—I don’t like them, but I’ll keep them just in case. Strips of fabric from a dress I tore two visits ago. And some herbs I’ve picked from the Garden. It’s not much, but I save what I can.

The lights from the factories reflect off the gray-green haze, and I can see just a little. I remove the items inside the bottle, even though I don’t like to pull from this supply. Still, my head hurts too bad right now to worry about it.

Carefully, I remove two dried tear-shaped leafs from the bottle and crumble them between my fingers. If I had a fire at my disposal, I’d make a hot drink, but instead, I place the powder of the teaberry plant on my tongue and swallow it down with another swig of water. My throat burns again, though this time with the minty taste. The teaberry should kick my headache and lower the swelling in my face from Sweetpea’s punch.

I empty my boots. A small piece of fabric wrapped around five more meal pills is inside, as well as a sewing needle, complete with a bobbin of thread that I stole from the costume room. Finally, I remove the slender metal tip of a beater a nasty little Pip broke over my shoulder one day when I refused to get my leg hair zapped off. I roll it across the palm of my hand, hoping I haven’t ruined my chances of escape with my earlier stunt. These items have been hiding in my boot, crushing my toes for the last week. I place them in the bottle with the rest of the items, seal the lid, and bury it again.

A couple minutes pass and I begin to feel better. Metea’s voice in my head reminds me to be thankful for that.

I pull myself to my knees, but when I open my lips to pray, the song is missing. It’s dried up inside of me. I can’t even think of how to start, and this scares me a little. Sweetpea and Lotus and Lily’s voices are in my head, calling me cracked, saying I lay down with sheep. Laughing at me like I’m some kind of freak. Daphne’s in there too, telling me the city scientists have proven there are no gods. Up until this morning I was convinced Mother Hawk would hear me, but now I wonder if the pollution in the city is too thick or, worse, that my call has fallen on deaf ears.

Because I am still here.

If my ma was still alive, she’d come for me. Bian would’ve tried something. But Salma—she’s got enough to do just worrying about herself, and with the twins, she’s surely stretched to the limit.

I chew my nails, fighting back that feeling I get sometimes. That something’s happened to them—maybe that day I was caught, maybe one day since. It sticks to me like sap, that feeling. I try to focus on a new camp and what supplies we’ll need in the colder elevations, but my worries are hard to shake.

Something crunches lightly over the grass, and I startle. These are not the heavy boots of a Watcher, but someone else. I roll to my feet and crouch low, gripping the chain. Ready to defend myself if needed.

The noise is coming from the sewer behind the Driver’s barn. I hear a soft whimper, and my heart soars.

“Brax!” I whisper. “It’s okay! The Watcher’s inside! Come on, Brax!”

Brax knows to run if the Watcher’s door slides open. It was the first thing he learned when he first came to visit me. I force myself to take a deep breath, and feel my chest expand. The swelling in my nose is down, thanks to the teaberry.

A large gray wolf, no less than hip height, comes stalking across the grass towards me. He avoids the brook after he leaves the sewer—I suspect Brax can smell the bad water—and sneaks straight up against the outer wall of the facility.

Then he springs through the air and tackles me.

I cannot swallow the giggles that bubble from my throat as Brax kisses my cheeks and my neck with his long, rough tongue. He licks and sniffs and snorts through my mess of hair, as though he believes I’ve hidden treats inside my curls. His paws are on my shoulders, pinning me down, and his breath smells a little fishy, but I am overjoyed. Brax is the only good thing I have in my life since I was taken.

“You’ve gotten so big!” I croon, feeling like a mother must as she watches her child grow up. His eyes are still ice blue and glassy with love and a bit of wildness. I grip his shaggy silver mane and play-shove him to the side. He knows this game well. He pounces, attacking me again with kisses, and then rolls onto his back so I can scratch his belly. His tongue lolls to the side.

“You’re dirty,” I say. He doesn’t have Pips scrubbing him clean every time he refuses to bathe.

Brax was only a puppy when I found him, small enough to fit in the cradle of my arm. He came from the sewer, reeking of garbage, too thin. I suspect he wandered through the grating when he was small enough to fit, and then couldn’t get back outside the city walls. He was wary of me, and I was just as suspicious, not trusting even the wild things in the city so soon after my capture. But eventually he crossed the stream, limping and whimpering because his stomach was twisted by hunger and worms.

He felt better after I convinced him to eat some mayflower leaves that I found growing wild by the office. I could tell he trusted me.

Later that night, he nipped at me, and made a playful growling noise that sounded almost like a bobcat. “Burrrrrax!” It seemed only right to assume he was telling me his name. And when I called him Brax he licked the back of my hand. I felt like I had finally done something right. I was so happy I’d hugged him until he’d bitten me to stop.