Chapter 30

I bring everything back to Marisa. She’s looking a little better. No, that’s not right. She still looks like all the colour bled out of her. But at least she looks calmer. She sits straighter when she sees me come in.

“All good,” I say. I spread the blankets on the ground, forming one into a pillow, and help Marisa sit in the makeshift bed. I drape the last blanket over her knees. The heater is doing a great job warming up the room, but Marisa is still shivering.

“Here.” I give her the energy drink and some granola bars. I put my jacket over the nearest chair, and when I turn back, Marisa is having trouble ripping open the granola bar package, like she’s too weak to even grip her fingers together, so I go over and do it for her.

Instead of thank you, she says, “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” I say.

“I don’t know.” Her hand droops, and for a second I’m afraid she’s about to drop the granola bar, but she just buries her eyes in her other hand. And she’s crying. She’s crying. I don’t like seeing her like this.

“Don’t cry.” That’s such a stupid, useless thing to say. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do though. I’ve never had to comfort anyone before. I want to beg her to stop crying. I want to tell her she’s scaring me. But I know it’s not going to help. I reach forward and hug her instead.

It takes her a few long, long seconds to hug me back, and I can’t remember the last time we hugged. When I started elementary school, I always dodged out of her hugs because I didn’t want her to treat me like a baby who needed to be coddled. I was going to school. I was growing up. But right now, I don’t feel so grown-up. I feel so small, and I need her. I need her.

“Dany.” I can still hear tears in her voice. She pulls away and looks me dead in the eyes, her hands tight on my shoulders. “Listen to me. This is serious. If tomorrow I am too weak to move, you need to go on without me. You hear? Take what you can and go.”

“I don’t know how,” I say. “Not on my own.”

“Yes, you do. We’ve talked about this.”

I shake my head desperately. We’ve talked about getting separated. We’ve never talked about me leaving her forever.

She grips me tighter. I can tell it’s taking all her strength because her hands are shaking. “We’re close to the border now. Just a day’s walk. You can’t cross without a passport, so you find—” She stops to catch her breath. “You get away from where all the people are. You find a part of the fence that has no guards. In the prairies. Or in the woods. There will be cameras, so you need to be fast. Spark through, and run. Just run.”

I can’t. The words are about to burst out, burning my throat raw. I can’t.

“Dany.” She moves one hand to the side of my head, smoothing down my hair. She still looks like a picture that is fading away, but her eyes are burning with determination. “You can do it. I know you can.”

I imagine myself at the border’s chain-link fence. I imagine sparking a hole in it. I imagine running, running, running.

Alone.

“And then what?” I say.

Her face crumples, and quietly, she says, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” I say, and nothing else because I know my voice is about to break.

“I know, baby. I know.” She folds around me, and I bury my face in her coat, and I want to cry, but one of us has to stay strong.

I don’t know how long we hold each other until she speaks again. “Dany,” she says in that thin broken voice. “I need to tell you something. It’s a last resort. Promise me, you’ll only use it as a last resort.”

I don’t have a clue what she might be talking about, but I nod, my face still buried.

“I need to write it down. I need paper.”

I don’t want to let go of her, but I wipe my eyes and search the office. I come back with a marker and a pad of sticky notes, and Marisa begins writing on it with trembling hands.

Numbers. A phone number.

She folds the note up and presses it into my hand. “Last resort,” she says. “Promise?”

“Who is it?”

“Promise.”

I swallow and say, “I promise.”

There’s no relief in her eyes when I say this, but I see acceptance, like she’s done all she can do, and I want to tell her, No! This isn’t all you can do! You have to come with me! You can’t leave me alone!

The words stay burning in my throat. I pour myself into her arms again. I want to lie down and sleep and hope when tomorrow comes, it’ll be a fresh start. The snow will cover the grey of the world, and Marisa will be okay.

I make sure she eats and drinks and takes some medicine. I eat, too, and try to imagine leaving the school tomorrow morning, on my own, without Marisa. But my mind won’t bend that way.

I can’t leave her.

The thought is a wall in my head, red-brick and strong.

I can’t leave her.

I can’t leave her. And I can’t survive without her. It’s not my sparks keeping me alive. It’s her. And I don’t know what I’d do without her.

I don’t want to be alone.

We sleep back-to-back again, with the orange blankets and radiator keeping us warm. The sickness puts Marisa in a deep sleep, but I stay wide awake, waiting. Waiting until it’s way past midnight, and the world is asleep.

Dear diary. I forgot about you for a hot second, huh?

I have to tell you a secret.

I’m not going to leave Marisa.

I’m going to save her.