Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Lincoln is wrapped in the moving pad and the metallic silver emergency blanket, my scarf still the only covering on his face and ears. I keep my focus on his back, telling myself that if he can do this without a coat and hat, I can do it while bundled in his parka.
Every step is so hard, though. My feet seem to be made of lead. Deep down, I know being in this kind of cold with wet feet isn’t survivable for long. We’ll both get frostbite.
I’d normally find the prospect of my feet slowly turning black and dying something worth getting upset about. I just don’t have it in me, though. It’s getting dark, and our gamble didn’t pay off.
I’m vaguely aware I’m not moving anymore. My whole body still hurts. Instinct makes me curl up into the fetal position.
“Trinity!” Lincoln runs back to me, dropping his blankets and the survival kit and using both hands to lift me up. “What happened?”
“I can’t.” Emotion wells in my throat. “Take the coat and leave me.”
“No fucking way,” he says fiercely. “Get up.”
“I’m so tired.”
“We’ll find something soon. I’m tired, too, but I’ll carry you if I have to.”
“No. It’s my fault.”
I don’t have the energy to explain what I mean—it was my idea to set out like this. Without the right supplies. To leave the plane.
Lincoln grabs the parka, a hand on each side, and hauls me into a standing position. I stumble against his chest and he supports my hips, fresh pain shooting through my injured ankle.
“You’re either walking, or I’m carrying you.” His breath against my face is the only warmth I’ve felt in...who even knows anymore? “We either live together or die together, you hear me? I’m not leaving you.” He digs through the survival kit and takes out another energy bar. “Eat this and let’s fucking go. I know you’re tougher than this.”
His harsh tone awakens something inside me. I grab the energy bar and shake it at him. “Is this going to heal my ankle? Will it make my feet dry? This is just a slow death and you know it.”
“Quit bitching. We’ve gotta work with what we have.”
He rewraps himself in the blankets and I rip open the protein bar, breaking it in half. Even without a coat, he’s still going and not complaining. I don’t know why I resent his determination.
I pass him half the bar and he shakes his head. “You eat it; you need it more than me.”
“Eat it and I’ll keep walking.”
He shakes his head and takes half of it, glaring at me as we both eat.
“I’ve got a lot more fourth-grade shit to tell you,” he says when he’s finished. “You gonna listen?”
“Can’t wait.” My tone is heavy with sarcasm and a smile plays on his lips.
He starts walking forward again and I drag my feet into motion. Would I really have just stayed back there and died if he’d let me? Am I really that weak?
“I had my first official girlfriend in fourth grade,” Lincoln yells from in front of me. “Macy Rivera. And that was when I started travel hockey. I wanted to be a goalie but my coaches rotated all of us on all the positions.”
I imagine a little Lincoln with his dark hair and confident smile. Was he a born leader, or did he grow into the role? I don’t have the strength it would take to ask him.
As he tells me all about his first year of travel hockey, I focus on breathing and walking. Deep breaths, in and out, while keeping pace with him. It doesn’t feel like I can do this, but I’m doing it anyway. Instead of thinking about the cold and our dismal survival odds, I think about breathing and stepping in the footprints he leaves in the snow.
Just. Keep. Going.
It’s almost fully dark now. We’re stopping about every hour to eat snow so we don’t dehydrate. We’ve made it through school recaps up to sixth grade, and my dark sense of humor is encouraging me to at least live until I can tell Lincoln about winning the school science fair in eighth grade with the hypoallergenic lotion I invented.
Will I tell him I nearly died in ninth grade? I normally don’t talk about it, but I’m entirely out of fucks to give at this point. Lincoln was twenty feet away when I peed in the snow behind a pine tree an hour ago. We’ve known each other for less than forty-eight hours and he’s already seen me at my worst.
I can hardly feel my feet and my ankle is throbbing with pain. I just want to rest for a few seconds.
The second I stop walking, he somehow knows and turns around.
“No stopping,” he barks. “No quitting.”
“My ankle.” I’m so weak the words are barely audible.