He’s curled over, trembling. It takes me a moment to realize who he is. My heart feels like it might burst. “Oh, God! Jackson. How’d you escape?”

I go to him. He raises a hand and doesn’t look at me. A car comes into view. The headlights grow larger. Brighter. Washing over me.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” I say. “Don’t worry. We’re almost home.”

We’ve done it, I think. We’ve survived. When I step closer, Jackson turns sharply away.

“Let me see. Can you move?” I ask.

He shivers. “I’m fine. Help El.”

“But how did you get over the gate?” My head pounds, exhaustion setting in. I wave my hands at the car. Jackson breathes in short, deep gasps. His whole body shakes. Why won’t he look at me?

“You seen Beth?” he asks, his voice quiet and calm. “Been looking for her.”

The question throws me off guard. I shake my head, unsure of how to answer him. He knows what happened to Beth. We all know. The car is almost here.

“Must have been tired of waiting,” he says, still crouched away from me.

I study my brother’s skin, noticing he’s not that dirty, not after what we’ve been through. There should be mud and blood on him, but Jackson’s barely damp, whereas I’m soaked through. “Jackson…” I say, not sure where to start. “You did get over the gate. Right?”

There’s a heavy moment. He stops shaking.

Finally, he turns to me and my chest tightens. His jaw is broken and lop-sided. Bloody gashes crisscross his face.

“Oh, Jackson,” I say.

His eyes lock with mine. After awhile, his face contorts, his lips stretching upwards, and I realize he’s actually smiling at me, though it’s a grotesque display in his current state.

The car pulls closer, flashing its lights. I wave at the driver, but when I glance back to my brother, he’s gone. The car beeps. A man opens the driver’s side door, his forehead knotted in worry.

“Miss? Are you okay? Miss?” The man keeps talking, his lips moving, but my mind’s reeling. All I can do is look at the space where Jackson once stood.

10

10

In the sparse hospital waiting room, I sit next to an old lady muttering to herself about how she’s late, late, always late. Across from me is a man without any teeth. He chomps down on his gums like he’s chewing grass. My arm throbs from where the dog bit me. There’s a butterfly bandage that itches the corner of my mouth.

I stare at the floor, trying to process the past 24 hours. Bruises are already forming on my arm. My shins and thighs are soft with pain. But you’re alive, I think. You survived.