Chapter 26

I wake up feeling like my whole body shrank into crust. I can’t remember where I am or why it’s so bright or why there are weird loud whooooooshes coming from the sky. Car. Somewhere. Underpass? No, under an overpass.

Marisa is still sleeping. It’s weird because she’s always awake before me.

I turn around and say, “Marisa?” and push her shoulder. I feel so, so relieved when she makes a small groan and rolls around to face me. She looks worse than last night. She’s paler and it makes the circles under her eyes look like reddish bruises. Her skin looks like wax. I don’t think it’s good.

“Is it morning?” she asks. Her voice sounds like sandpaper. Her eyes are still closed.

“Yes,” I say, even though it doesn’t feel like it. The world is all grey today. It looks like it’ll rain. Or snow. I hope it won’t.

Marisa tries to sit up, but she’s shaking a lot. I help her lean against the side of the car. She really doesn’t look okay. But before I can say it, she says. “Pass me my bag.”

I do what she says. She digs out our stash of granola bars and half a bottle of water. I search my bag too and find a chocolate protein bar and a rice cracker that has probably been there for weeks because I don’t remember where it came from and it’s all crumbled inside the package. There’s also my tube of disgusting cough syrup candy. A part of me feels guilty about buying it, which is stupid, I know. It was only a dollar. But still.

I keep the grape candy hidden and take out the protein bar and cracker. We eat our sad little breakfast, and then I ask, “What now?”

Marisa rubs her eyes. She looks like she’s having a hard time keeping them open. “Drive south. Get closer to the border. Get any chance we can to cross. It’s not ideal, but it’s the only thing we can do.”

That doesn’t sound much like a plan. But I don’t have a better one.

“You need medicine,” I say.

Marisa climbs into the driver’s seat. “I can make it.”

“Make it where?”

“I’ll be okay. Just give me more water.”

“You need medicine.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Marisa never snaps at me. That’s how I know she must be really, really sick.

I give her the water. I haven’t changed my mind. Marisa needs medicine. But it’s obvious bringing it up now won’t get us anywhere.

I crawl into the passenger seat, and Marisa turns on the engine. The low fuel light flashes orange. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“We’re running out of gas,” I say.

She blinks at the little gas pump icon and runs a hand across her forehead. “Okay,” she says in a sigh. “Gas first.”

When there’s less cars around, she pulls away from the overpass and gets onto the road. It takes only ten minutes to find a gas station, but Marisa already seems a lot worse. She’s squinting even though it’s not very bright. Her breathing is harder than normal. And her knuckles are white on the steering wheel, like it’s taking all her strength just to hang on.

When we stop at the station, she has to take a second to brace herself before she opens the door. But the moment she steps out, she suddenly covers her mouth, and then she’s leaning over and puking her guts out.

“Marisa?” I say. I unbuckle and crawl to the driver’s seat. She’s not puking anymore, but she’s gasping real hard, and she’s incredibly pale and incredibly sweaty. “Marisa?”

“I’m okay,” she says. She sounds like her throat is all closed up. “I’m just a little dizzy.”

I’m not sure how she expects me to believe that when I just saw her upchuck our sad little breakfast all over the concrete.

I look around. It’s like 7am and we’re in the countryside, so the only people here are the gas station store workers. I don’t think they noticed somebody puked on their property yet, and I don’t want them to because then they’d come over and ask if we need help and then they’d get a good look at our faces and snitch on us.

I help Marisa sit back in the car. She looks sick. I know I keep saying it, but that’s all I can think when I see her. She’s sick, and I don’t know how long she can last like this.

“We need to find somewhere to rest,” I say. “Like, really rest.”

Marisa shakes her head, pressing her palms into her eyes. “We have to keep moving.”

“We can’t keep moving if you look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I just need to sit awhile.”

“You need medicine.”

“We can’t get medicine,” she bursts out, slicing with both hands. “We can’t go to a hospital. We can’t go to a shelter. We have to keep going before I get worse and we are wasting time. Get in the car.”

I want to cry. But I say, “You didn’t pump the gas yet.”

She says a bad word under her breath and starts to get out of the car. I watch her wobble, and my heart cramps with frustration.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

She looks like she wants to argue, but then there’s some relief on her face, too. Like she’s glad she doesn’t have to get up.

I’ve never pumped gas before, but I’ve seen her do it enough times. I go to the gas station store and pick out some supplies first. Food and water and tissue. I pause at the little medicine section and try to figure out what Marisa needs. We have some painkiller already, but I don’t know if it helps. Cold medicine? Fever medicine? Aspirin?

I hesitantly take the fever medicine and bring my haul to the counter.

The cashier has been watching me the moment I stepped in, and now she says, “You’re all alone, kid?”

“No,” I say. “My mom is in the car. She wants me to practice my grownup skills.”

She looks at me like I’m precious.

I ask for forty liters on pump one. I pay with the cash we stole from the vending machines.

When I’m back at the car, I give Marisa the fever medicine. She slants me a look, and if she were stronger she might have given me an earful about wasting money, but now she just opens the box without a word.

I wrestle the pump into the side of the car and listen to the glug of the gas. When I glance at Marisa, she’s having trouble opening the pill bottle.

I take it from her and open it easily. Fear burns like a low fire in my heart. This isn’t right. Marisa shouldn’t be weaker than me.

“Marisa,” I start.

But she just says, “I’ll be okay.”

The pump clicks. I return it to its holster and get back in the car. As we pull out of the station, I glance at Marisa again, hoping to see signs that the medicine is working. Maybe she’ll be less pale, or her eyes would be less dull, and there wouldn’t be that tremor in her hands. I know medicine doesn’t work so fast, but I can’t help but feel disappointed when I see nothing has changed.