The Paper Swan(54)

“We both know you won’t shoot me,” Rafael said to Damian, his finger on the trigger, eyes on me.

“Try me,” said Damian. “I told you before. You get in my way, I’ll take you out.”

Rafael didn’t look the least bit convinced. “You’re hurt, Damian. Delirious. You don’t know what you’re doing. As long as she’s alive, you’re in danger. They won’t stop until they find her. We have to cut the trail off right here.”

“I decide,” growled Damian. “I decide what to do and when to do it. This has nothing to do with you, so back the f*ck off. Get on your boat, get off this island, and don’t look back. My life, my fight, my rules.”

Rafael didn’t move. Damian didn’t move. They both stood there, guns raised, too stubborn to admit that each was looking out for the other.

“I got the stuff you asked for, Rafael.” It was Manuel, back from his trip. “Your face is all over the news, Damian. The mainland was crawling with cops and private security guys hired by Warren Sedgewick.” He looked from Rafael to Damian, suddenly aware he’d tripped over a live wire. “Hey, man, what’s going on?”

Rafael and Damian didn’t respond. Manuel’s news had just added fuel to the fire. They continued warring without words, locked in a duel that stretched out into a thin, taut silence. Then Rafael broke contact.

“This is bullshit, Damian, and you know it,” he said. “If you’re determined to go down, don’t expect me to hang around and watch.” He took the case from Manuel and shoved it into Damian’s arms. “Medical supplies,” he said. “But seeing as you don’t give a f*ck about your life, you probably won’t use them.” He was angry, so angry that he wouldn’t look Damian in the eye. “You’re not invincible, you know that? You’re a bull-headed prick who can barely stand. You need to get back inside and stay put. At least until the heat is off. I’ll look after the business end of things and get Manuel to plant your phone in Caboras. Let them go chasing for you there,” he said. “And next time I see you, you better be damn sure your stubborn ass is still standing.”

Damian stayed on his feet until Rafael and Manuel were out of sight. His legs didn’t buckle until he heard the boat taking off. Then he dropped like a sack of potatoes. I ran to him, feeling the weight of all the things I now knew about him. I brushed the hair back from his brow. He was burning up—his breath was hot, his skin clammy. Not only had he lost a lot of blood, but it seemed like an infection had set in from his wound.

Yesterday, I would have given anything to be free of him.

Die, Dah-me-yahn, DIE!

Today I was rummaging through the supplies Manuel had brought. I needed antibiotics to fight the infection. I needed something to bring his fever down. I needed him to open his eyes, to look at me, to say something, anything.

Live, Dah-me-yahn, LIVE!



Damian dangled between life and death, slipping in and out of consciousness all night. His pulse was erratic, sometimes hard and fast, sometimes barely detectable. I hovered over him, monitoring his fever, wringing out a towel and laying it on his forehead, like I remembered MaMaLu doing when we were sick. When the cold compresses turned lukewarm, I changed the water. Again and again and again.

By morning, I wasn’t running to the kitchen as often. Damian seemed to have made it through the worst of it. I stretched out beside him, emotionally and physically exhausted. I had managed to get him back to the villa and into bed, supporting his weight, dragging him step by excruciating step.

We were lying under gauzy, white netting. The house was rough, but charming. With no glass in the windows, it was open to the outside, letting the ocean air sweep through. The netting kept the mosquitoes and bugs away, but it also closed off the rest of the world. I could finally look at Damian—really look at him.

If you close your eyes and think about someone you love, what comes back is not a precise list of hair color, eye color, or the things that go on their driver’s license. Rather, it’s the bits and pieces that seep through your consciousness, the things about them that you never realized you were storing away. Like the shape of Damian’s ears and the way his lids had a slight sheen. Everything else had changed—his Adam’s apple, so pronounced, the stubble on his jaw, the way his mouth never seemed to relax—but I still knew his ear lobes, from all the times we lay next to each other on the grass. Every time the trees swayed in the wind, yellow flowers dropped on our faces.