Page 17 (1/2)

I lift ht, and blood trails down one for what feels like forever, a wholea white box with a red cross painted on it

"Upstairs It’s too dark down here," he says, grippingand opens the box "This will hurt," he warns, "but don’t cry out!" He crouches beside ape With his teeth he tears open a sar packet from a restaurant--and holds it over my hand Our eyes meet And then his face is over my palm, and he pours little round white beads that look like fertilizer into the open gash They hiss when they touch blood, and then absorb it until they turn red The beads expand and the bleeding slows Pressure fills the wound I gasp and squeeze ht, I totter and fall to the side

Fire laces ers and wrist Ice follows, traveling all the way to ers It feels like a rock is wedged inside the cut, and I can’t make a fist I take a deep breath and openthe hair from my sweaty forehead

"I’m sorry," Bowen says

I look up at hi stupid I shouldn’t have used the glass--"

"Fo," Bowen snaps, silencing ulant hurt your hand You totally deserved it But I’ stuck with you"

Sunshine spreads through my body I sit up and bea my potential--and most likely, terribly painful--death, you’re not that bad" He s, he takes my injured hand and wraps it with stretchy tape

"No showering for twenty-four hours," he warns

My eyes grow round and I lean toward hihs and shakes his head "It was a joke" A hot breeze stirs the air, and Bowen shuts his eyes "Maybe we should sleep up here tonight It’s a lot cooler than downstairs And with the cover of darkness … I’ll grab our stuff"

He stands I watch hio, then make my way to the s in time to see the sun disappear behind distantevery corner and hollow And one shadow on the street below moves I crouch down for a better look

The shadow crouches, too, and for aup fro pale and limp The bottom half of my pants

Chapter 18

I wake to the sound of a ht aboveI lift my head in search of its source

"No! Don’ton my shoulder "Look" He nods toward ain and peer down the length ofthe cris drone like a bird is the first living, wild aniht-green chest and red-capped head are startlingly out of place

"Where’d it come from?" I whisper, unable to take birds living inside of it Every once in a while one gets out It thinks your blood is a flower It’s probably on the verge of starving to death"

The hu h an ely silent

Bowen points the res and think about going back to sleep

After a moment, I hear another sound, re dirt I openknife glides along his jaw line, scraping a thin lather of white foam and dark stubble from his skin The scent of pine floats on the air I stare, entranced, as he scrapes all the creaain Almost

"Here" Bowen holds a water bottle out todrink He smirks "That’s for you shirt, Fotard You need to wash the blood out of it"

I open ue, he says, "Blood draws beasts--the smell"

"Oh" Horrified, I pull off my shirt Bowen’s smirk disappears, and his freshly shaved cheeks turn a shade pinker He turns his back as if he’s never seen ht of s bindingthe back of round Pouring water on the blood, I start rubbing the fabric against itself I pour more water and rub more, but the blood doesn’t come out

"I need soap or bleach," I say over ood rinse for now" Bowen’s feet scrape on the ground, and he gasps I turn and look up at hi bad His eyes are fixed onopen

"What?" I ask

"What happened to your back?"

I craneabout?"

He crouches behind ers overmy breasts to just above the waist of ers move to the skin between s, and trail up to oose bumps in their wake