The Last One(66)

“You didn’t want to cross the tree,” I say, “but you want to go in there?”

He shrugs.

Something about that open door strikes me as far more menacing than a banner stretched across a fallen tree.

“We don’t need anything,” I say. “There’s no reason to.”

“The vending machine’s open,” he says. “I’m going to check.” He dashes toward the motel. I almost call after him.

I keep my lens to my eye and watch as Brennan jogs up to the vending machine. As he said, its front is ajar. He pries it fully open—the metallic screech makes me cringe—and reaches in. He’s taking bottles of something, I can’t see what. When he’s done he creeps toward the open door. I hold my breath as he steps inside. I expect screams, I expect gunshots, I expect silence. I expect everything, nothing. This might be where we part ways, because no matter what happens, I’m not going in there after him.

Brennan steps back outside. He jogs toward me, leaving the door open.

“I got some water,” he says. “And Fanta.”

“Terrific,” I deadpan, slipping my lens back into my pocket. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t you want to know what was in the room?” he asks.

“No.”

“Well, let’s just say—”

“No!” I snap. I don’t need to be told what’s in that room. I already know. More props, more games. A reward if I can hold my breath long enough to cross the room and reach a safe, or a briefcase, or a bag. But there is no blue. If it’s a Challenge, it’s optional, and I choose not to participate.

Over the next few hours, we pass a handful of houses and see several more deer. When we stop to make camp, I notice Brennan acting squirrely. He keeps looking at me, then looking away. He clearly wants to say something. About halfway through building my shelter I can’t take it anymore. “What?” I ask him.

“That piece of glass in your pocket,” he says.

“I wear glasses,” I tell him. “They broke shortly before we met and that lens was all I could salvage.”

“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know.”

Because I didn’t tell you, I think.

We finish our shelters, then sit together between them and split a bag of trail mix. As the sun sets I feel heavy and anxious. I don’t build a fire and Brennan doesn’t ask for one. He chugs a warm soda. I sip my water. I can’t stop thinking about the motel, about what was behind the open door. If it was what I thought, then why isn’t Brennan upset? Why does he no longer seem to care about the NO TRESPASSING sign? I don’t want to ask.

The moon’s waning and the sky is clouded. There’s very little light. My vision is a checkerboard of grays implying trees, implying a boy. I need to close my eyes. I back into my shallow shelter, snuggle into dry leaves, and pull my hood over my hat.

“Good night, Mae,” says Brennan. I hear rustling as he settles into his own shelter.

That night in my dreams I knock a crying baby off a cliff and then run to catch it, but I’m too late and my husband’s there, watching, and no matter how much I apologize to him it can never be enough.

When I wake up, it’s still dark and I’m shivering. I remember my dream too well, variation on a theme. My hood is off and I’ve squirmed partway out of my shelter. At first I think the cold woke me—ever since the rain, it’s as though Mother Nature flipped a switch to turn summer into autumn—but as I push back into my shelter, I realize there’s a sound overhead. Another airplane. I look up, but can’t see its lights through the canopy, the clouds. It sounds far away, but it’s there. That’s all that matters.

The next time I open my eyes, it’s light out. From the sun’s position I know it’s later than I usually sleep. I’m still cold—not shivering, but chilly. My fingers are stiff. It might be time to find some warmer clothing. But we should reach the river—if not today, tomorrow. From there it can’t be more than another two or three days. I can last that long. Then I’ll be able to sleep in my own bed with the covers tucked up to my chin, my husband a furnace at my back. I hope Brennan won’t put up too much of a fuss about being cold. That is, if he even feels it. He might not, if he’s anything like I was at eighteen. My freshman year at Columbia, I often wouldn’t bother putting on a coat while rushing between buildings for class in the winter. My friends would shiver beside me, incredulous, and I would shrug and say, “Vermont.”

I glance toward Brennan’s shelter as I crawl from mine. His zebra pack leans against the exterior. I start pulling apart my debris hut, figuring the noise will wake him, but every time I look in his direction I see only stillness. I toss the last of my framing branches aside. It crashes into leaf litter and strikes a rock. He sleeps through the racket, somehow.

“Hey,” I say, approaching his shelter. “Time to get up.” I crouch by the opening.

The shelter is empty.

“Brennan!” I shout, standing. “Brennan!” And then I’m hyperventilating and can’t call his name again. I turn in a circle, the forest suddenly ominous. I know he’s part of the game and I’ve been wishing him gone since he first appeared, but I can’t do it, I can’t be alone. There’s not enough of me left to survive being left alone again.