Arena One: Slaverunners

“Do you promise?” she asks.

“I promise,” I say.

* * *

I open my eyes, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am out of pain. It is amazing: I feel healthy again. The pain in my leg is mostly gone, the swelling shrunk down to the size of a golf ball. The medicine really worked.

My aches and pains have also reduced dramatically, and I sense that my fever has, too. I don’t feel nearly as cold, and I’m not sweating as much. I’ve been given a second chance at life.

It is still dark. I can no longer see the moon and wonder how much time has passed. Logan is still sitting there, by my side. He sees me and reacts immediately, reaching over and brushing my forehead with a damp cloth. He’s not wearing a coat; he has draped it over me. I feel terrible; he must be freezing.

I feel a fresh wave of appreciation for him, feel closer to him than ever. He must really care for me. I wish I could tell him how much I appreciate it. But right now, my mind is still moving slow, and doesn’t seem able to form the words.

He reaches down and puts a hand behind my head and lifts it.

“Open your mouth,” he says softly.

He places three pills on my tongue, then pours bottled water into my mouth. My throat is so dry that it takes a few tries to swallow – but finally, I feel it go down. I lift my head a bit more and take another long sip.

“Fever reducers,” he says.

“I feel much better,” I say, with new energy. I grab his hand and squeeze it tight in appreciation. He has saved my life. Again. I look up at him. “Thank you,” I say earnestly.

He smiles, then suddenly pulls his hand away. I’m not sure how to interpret this. Does he not care for me as much as I think? Did he only do this out of obligation? Does he care for someone else? Did I overstep my boundaries in some way? Or is he just shy? Embarrassed?

I wonder why it bothers me so much, and suddenly it dawns on me: I have feelings for him.

He reaches down and removes something from a backpack.

“They gave us this,” he says.

He pulls out a piece of dried fruit and hands it to me. I take it in awe, feeling a hunger pang already.

“What about you?” I ask.

He shakes his head, as if deferring. But I won’t eat it otherwise. I tear mine in half and shove it into his hand. He grudgingly accepts it. I then devour mine, and it is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten. It tastes like cherries.

He smiles as he eats, then reaches into the pack and pulls out two pistols. He hands me one. I study it in awe.

“Fully loaded,” he says.

“They must really hate those slaverunners,” I say.

“They want us to get your sister. And they want us to inflict damage,” he says.

The gun is heavy in my hand; it feels so good to have a weapon again. Finally, I don’t feel defenseless. I have a fighting chance to get her back.

“Next boat leaves at dawn,” he says. “A few hours to go. You up for it?”

“I’ll be on that boat even if I’m a corpse,” I say, and he smiles.

He examines his own gun, and I am suddenly overcome with a desire to know more about him. I don’t want to pry, but he is so silent, so enigmatic. And I am feeling more and more attached to him. I want to know more.

“Where were you going to go?” I ask him. My voice is hoarse, my throat dry, and it comes out more scratchy than I would like.

He looks at me, puzzled.

“If you’d escaped, in the beginning. If you’d taken that boat.”

He looks away and sighs. A long silence follows, and after a while, I wonder if he is going to answer.

“Anywhere,” he finally says, “far away from here.”

He’s holding something back. I’m not sure why. But I just feel he’s the type to have a more concrete plan.

“There must be somewhere,” I say. “Some place you had in mind.”

He looks away. Then, after a long silence, reluctantly, he says, “Yes, there was.”

It is clear from his tone that he doesn’t expect to be able to reach it now. After a long pause, I realize he’s not going to volunteer it. I don’t want to pry, but I have to know.

“Where?” I ask.

He looks away, and I can see he doesn’t want to tell me for some reason. I wonder if maybe he still doesn’t trust me. Then, finally, he speaks.

“There’s supposed to be one town left. A safe place, untouched, where everything is perfect. Unlimited food and water. People live there as if there was never a war. Everyone’s healthy. And it’s safe from the world.”

He looks at me.

“That’s where I was going.”

For a moment I wonder if he’s pulling my leg. He must realize that it sounds incredulous – infantile, even. I can’t believe that someone as mature and responsible as him would believe in such a place – or would make a plan to find it, no less.

“Sounds like a place of fairy tales,” I say, smiling, half-expecting him to tell me he was just kidding.

But to my surprise, he suddenly scowls down at me.

“I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says, sounding hurt.

I am shocked by his reaction. He really does believe it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought you were joking.”

He looks away, embarrassed. It’s hard for me to even comprehend it: I gave up thinking of anything good still existing in the world long ago. I can’t believe he still clings to this belief. Him, of all people.

“Where is it?” I finally ask. “This town?”

He pauses for a long time, as if debating whether to tell me.