The Last One(34)

“I just haven’t seen anyone else in so long,” he says. He’s staring at me as though to prove his point.

I cannot trust him.

“Look for someone else,” I say, and I resume walking.

“Where are you going?”

He is walking beside me. When I don’t answer him, he asks, “Can I have something to drink?”

I gather all the generosity I can muster. “There’s a gas station around the bend. Get your own.”

“Will you wait for me?”

I stop and squint at him again. He must have been difficult to cast.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll wait.”

His eyes widen with exaggerated emotion—I think it’s supposed to look like joy. “Around the bend?” he asks.

“Around the bend.”

“You’ll be here?”

I nod.

He begins to jog, shooting glances back at me every few steps. He morphs into a red blur and disappears around the bend. I imagine him sprinting toward sustenance, taking his role seriously.

I wait a few more seconds then slip into the woods. I do my best not to leave a trail, though anyone with a tracker’s eye could see where I passed through the tall grass. This kid doesn’t seem like he has a tracker’s eye, but he might have access to the cameras. A radio and GPS. I move slowly, but it doesn’t matter. I’m carrying too much to be quiet and I keep stepping on crisp sticks and crunching leaves that are impossible for me to avoid. A blind man could find me. Maybe I should stop moving at all, but then I wouldn’t be getting closer, I’d be stuck here and—

An anguished, wordless howl echoes through the woods.

I pause, momentum banging my water bottle against my hip. I hear another howl and can tell from the intonation that this one contains words, though I can’t interpret them. I tell myself not to go back, and then I do. I leave the woods. As soon as I emerge, I see him. The road here is straight and I have not gone far. He runs toward me, sharpening as he nears.

“You said you’d wait,” he cries. His eyes are red and his dirty cheeks are river deltas drawn to scale.

He’s a better actor than I figured.

“I’m here,” I say. “Where’s your stuff?”

“I dropped it,” he says. “When I saw you weren’t there.”

I walk with him to collect his provisions. They’ve spilled from plastic bags he must have found behind the counter. Bottles and cans and oblong packages lie all over the road, some still rolling.

“You don’t have a backpack?”

“I used to, but I lost it.”

I don’t like him; his character clearly isn’t very bright. While we’re packing his supplies—as much soda as water, and mostly candy—he asks my name. For a second I can’t remember, and then I lie.

“Mae,” I say. The month of my birth, but I imagine it spelled with an E. I’ve always liked how wise the letters A and E look, side by side.

He stares at me. Perhaps he knows I’m lying. Perhaps they told him my name. Finally he says, “I’m Brennan.”

I’ve never met a Brennan before. I doubt it’s his real name. Then again, I don’t care. My eyes flick to his sweatshirt.

I begin to walk. The college kid follows, plastic bags in his hands, asking questions. He wants to know about me, where I’m from, how I got here, where I’m going, where I was “when it happened.” Why, why, why. I almost expect him to hand me a second flyer. I play a game and tell him two lies for every truth. I’m from Raleigh, I got separated from a group of friends while white-water rafting and have been alone ever since, I’m going home. Soon I switch to all lies. I’m from a large family, I’m an environmental lawyer, my favorite food is peanut butter. My answers are inconsistent, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I think he asks to hear my voice, and to give the editors something to edit other than my walking. I wonder how my lies will be portrayed; if I’ll be taken aside to explain myself via confessional. I haven’t done that since my fight with Heather.

The kid doesn’t comment on my pace and I don’t mention my broken glasses or the fog he becomes when more than a dozen feet distant. Around midday he stops asking questions long enough to complain, “I’m tired, Mae.” He’s hungry too; he wants to rest. I realize I haven’t eaten since yesterday, and with the realization am light-headed. I sit on an embankment; he sits next to me, too close. I scoot a few inches to the side, drink some water, and pull the beef jerky from my bag. He pulls a Snickers bar and a pack of Skittles from his. He’ll crash after the sugar rush, I think. I almost offer him a piece of jerky, then I remember that if he has to stop I can leave him behind. He dumps a handful of Skittles into his hand and pops them into his mouth.

I remember the Junior Mints. What happened to them? I check my pockets, my pack. I can’t find them. I don’t remember dropping them, or eating them, or anything other than shaking the box. For all I remember, they should still be in my hand. Perhaps I mindlessly tucked them into one of the plastic bags? It bothers me that I don’t know, but not enough to ask. I gnaw my jerky, silent.

Despite his questionable diet, the kid keeps pace throughout the afternoon. It seems his youth and my poor vision have negated the difference in our meals. When the sun is a few fists above the horizon, I turn off the road.