I feel like I should say something. The silence is too familiar. I’m not used to touching people, to having them touch me. But anything I could say would be either too mundane or too personal. And so I let my cheek rest in the crook of his shoulder blade and allow my body to mold to his as he plows forward.

I close my eyes and imagine the sun. I imagine a field of flowers and no sounds on the breeze other than the call of birds and hum of insects. No death. No running and hiding. No fear. And then I imagine Catcher next to me, the steady drum of his touch around my ankles, moving up toward my knee.

I draw a sharp breath, startled at the direction of my thoughts. My neck flushes, the heat of it creeping up over my jaw and along my cheeks. I’m glad Catcher can’t see me.

He tightens his grip. “Stop squirming,” he says, which mortifies me even more. “It’s getting shallower,” he adds as he stumbles from the water up toward the higher and drier ground of a station.

He lets go of me just as the surface clears his knees and I wriggle down, splashing when I land. I scramble toward the platform and hoist myself up, keeping my back turned the whole time so he can’t see my blushing face.

Suddenly, I feel awkward. As if I should say something about what just happened, but I’m not used to talking to people so all I can muster is “Thanks.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see him grimace as he uses his injured arm to help lift himself up. “Whatever it takes to survive,” he says, pulling himself to his feet.

It’s stupid of me to want him to say something more, to acknowledge the intimacy of the last few moments, and I realize he’s right: we do what it takes to survive. His carrying me wasn’t a tender moment, it was simply what needed to be done.

I should know better than anyone that this life isn’t about feelings; it’s about making it through alive.

I wrap my arms around myself again, digging my fingers into my shoulders to conserve what heat is left from his body. My pants are sodden and heavy, my feet almost numb. “This should be far enough into the City,” I say, and nod my chin toward the stairs ascending into the darkness.

He starts walking toward them, the light still gripped tight in his hand.

I follow, pulling the machete from my belt. “When we get outside we’ll need to find the closest fire escape and climb up to the bridges,” I tell him. “Judging from what we saw in the Neverlands it might not be long until they breach the Palisade wall if they haven’t already.”

He says nothing, just nods again and takes the steps two at a time, so I have to scramble after him to keep within the meager light. My thighs quickly start to burn, my body exhausted and starving as I struggle against my heavy waterlogged clothes.