Wild (25 page)

Forty-two

S
omething crashed on the roof.

Josh grabbed his Little League bat and charged down the hall. Most of the crazy was happening elsewhere. After the first rush of stories, people forgot he'd been involved at all. It was much freaking better that way.

But they
had
had a couple run-ins on their lawn. Plus, some beady-eyed douche bag from the
Makwa Courier
had stolen their trash. Josh didn't put it past them to break into the house in the middle of the night.

Since his dad weighed one sixty soaking wet, Josh felt like it was his job to run off the predators. That was always going to be his job, now. He'd never hide again.

When Josh hit the living room, he stopped. Listened. Everything was quiet, then something scrabbled down the side of the house. Blood pumping, Josh unlocked the front door. Then, after charging himself up with a couple of bounces, he threw it open. A flash of pale, an impression of a person startled him. Josh swung.

Cade caught the bat.

“What do you want?” Josh demanded.

Knot after knot tightened in Josh's back. Yeah, he'd seen the news. The video of this jag with his hands all over Dara. The werewolf, wild-man act, uh-huh. Josh knew exactly what Dara meant now, when she said she wanted to take
care
of him. Josh wanted to take care of him, too. Right then, he was more than a little sorry he'd missed his chance with the bat.

With a subtle gesture, Cade indicated a shadowy car at the corner. A faint glow filled the cab. It was just enough light to reveal a woman with a laptop and a collection of empty takeout containers. At that moment, she had her head down, apparently searching for something in her lap. Cade pressed a finger to his lips,
shhhh
.

Everything about the guy made Josh want to do the opposite. To yell and get that reporter's attention. Flip on every light in the house and invite the circus to come get a piece of the Primitive Boy.

But there was something about his expression tonight. Cade stared at him. He studied him, not like prey. Like he recognized him, something more than just his face. That's probably why Josh jerked Cade into the house. Closing the door, Josh reclaimed his bat and waited for his explanation.

“Well? I know you speak English, spit it out.”

Down the hall, Josh's mom stirred. Stepping into the hall, she called softly, “Honey?”

“It's nothing,” Josh replied. Less than nothing.
Just somebody who's gonna explain himself real quick before I kick him to the curb in the dark.
Out loud, he added, “A cat got in the trash, I'm cleaning it up.”

“Oh, good. Thank you for honoring our family.”

Then the bedroom door shut, and Josh scowled at Cade's raised eyebrow. “Don't even think about my mother.”

“I'm not.”

What time was it, anyway? Josh leaned to look at the clock. After three. He had no idea why he was standing in his living room with this guy in the middle of the night. At all, really. He looked him over, then came back to his stupid, wide-eyed face. At least he wasn't running around in Josh's clothes anymore. “All right, you gonna explain what you want?”

Cade's expression flattened, like a hand wiped over his skin and planed it smooth. His nostrils flared, and it all happened in a millisecond. A complete change, without hesitation. Thrusting his hand out, Cade looked at Josh expectantly.

“You want me gone. I need to go. Will you help me?”

The hand hung between them. It was hard to tell if he was messing with him. Josh still wasn't sure if there was a difference between the myths on TV and the actual guy standing in front of him. Not for a second did he believe the whole innocent babe in the woods routine.

But on the off chance that Cade was being straight up with him, Josh said nothing. Nope. He shook his hand, then went to get his keys.

 

Two hours of sleep wasn't enough. Even at his college peak, Sheriff Porter needed at least three to get through the day.

Ordinarily, he wouldn't let a deputy chauffeur him around. He was a public servant, and he was a hands-on sheriff. He just didn't want to risk falling asleep and crashing a cruiser. Nothing like more police incompetence to keep a story alive.

As they rolled up to Kelly Fourakis' house, the deputy hit the siren—once, twice. Just a couple quick blasts to get the reporters out of the way. Sheriff Porter climbed out. He held his hand up, his own personal wall. They could yammer at him all they wanted, he had nothing to say.

Ms. Fourakis met him at the door. She pressed a mug of coffee into his hands, and ushered him inside. Her house was never loud, but it seemed unnaturally quiet this morning. The rooms felt too big, the space too open.

Leading Sheriff Porter down the hall, she said, “He was quiet when we got home yesterday, but I thought he was going to be all right.”

Cade's bedroom was made up perfectly. The covers had been smoothed, and pillows placed at the head. Stacks of neatly folded towels sat at the foot. The toiletries basket rested next to it, its contents carefully rearranged.

Ms. Fourakis picked up a thin green book from the dresser and handed it to the sheriff. There was a note on top, in clean, even handwriting. Block letters, perfectly shaped.

“‘Please return this to Dara's father. It belongs to him,'” Sheriff Porter read.

His stomach sank. This whole situation was six kinds of nightmare. He didn't feel guilty for the way he'd handled it. Nobody in their right mind would have believed Cade's story without some proof.

Once he got some, he went along. He changed his whole mind-set, shifting from seeing the boy as a somebody to suspect to someone who needed protection. And now that neglected, half-feral kid had run away. All of a sudden, two hours of sleep sounded indulgent.

“He watered my plants,” Ms. Fourakis said, rubbing the back of her neck. “Wrote a thank-you note. I have no idea when he left.”

With an optimism he didn't feel, Sheriff Porter said, “Well, he can't drive. He probably doesn't know how to hitchhike, and he doesn't have any money. How far could he have gotten?”

The answer to that question was fifty-three miles in a Ford F-150, and six more miles by foot. If Sheriff Porter was lucky, he'd have twenty-four hours to hide the disappearance from the press—and his daughter.

 

On Monday, a silvery peep interrupted English class. Right in the middle of a lecture about symbolism, actually. When the teacher went to answer the intercom, one of the guys in the back of the class thumped his desk.

“I bet this
means
something,” he said.

Laughter filled the class. Everyone had perked up, stirring the lazy heat that surrounded them. The school only used the PA for morning announcements. Since a call on the intercom could be for anyone, everyone rippled with curiosity.

“Miss Porter,” the teacher said as she hung up the phone. “Please collect your things. Your father's waiting for you in the office.”

There was a murmur of disappointment from everyone else as Dara closed her book and shoved it in her satchel.

At least it's Dad,
Dara thought as she slipped into the cool, quiet hallway. Though she didn't dwell on it anymore, there was always a worse possibility. That it would be Mom in the office; that Dad wouldn't be coming home anymore.

She was surprised when she got to the front corridor. The office was framed in glass. Inside, Sheriff Porter leaned against the front desk, but he wasn't alone. Two other deputies flanked him, along with Cade's social worker.

That couldn't be good. And after last night, she was afraid to go inside. If something had happened to Cade, she didn't know what she would do. Their stilted conversation played again in her head. After he left, she'd gone through it obsessively. She couldn't help feeling like she'd missed something.

It was something she was going to sort out after school. Today, she planned to turn up at his back door instead of the other way around. Her homework was going to wait. She intended to hold his hands. Hold his gaze. Really, really get him to talk to her. This all had to be too much for him.

Though she couldn't wrap her head around it, she thought she'd started to understand just how scary Makwa had to be to Cade.

How much his mother had messed him up—what kind of mom lied like that? She had to be completely insane to convince her kid that the whole world had died from the flu. And what about his dad? That guy had to be some kind of lunatic, too, to go along with it.

Lost in her own thoughts, Dara startled when the office door opened. Her father stood there, waiting for her to get it together and come inside.

“What's wrong?” Dara asked.

Sheriff Porter didn't answer until they got to a private room. She felt surrounded, like they were trying to intimidate her into being honest. Though the sheriff was her dad, he'd shifted into hundred-percent cop mode.

“When's the last time you saw Cade?”

Reflex wanted her to lie. But instinct told her not to. She'd grown up listening to her dad talk; she was steeped in law enforcement. That meant she knew there was never good news when people asked when you last saw someone. Swallowing hard, Dara said, “Saturday night. Like, three in the morning. He came to the house.”

Already, the deputies were taking notes. Sheriff Porter leaned against the table, taking the lead with the questions. “What for?”

“We hadn't seen each other yet,” Dara said. She sat down. Unconsciously, she braced herself. It was bad, she could tell. But she forced back tears. She refused to cry out of anticipation. It felt slick and out of control. It made her chest hurt, so she crushed her feelings down. “We usually do, every day.”

“Did you talk about anything unusual? Did he seem off?”

Dara couldn't take it. She couldn't go through an interrogation like this. Pretending that it wasn't her father asking the questions; acting like Cade was just some acquaintance. Twisting her hands in her lap, Dara asked, “Daddy, what happened? Is he hurt?”

For some reason, the social worker thought it was a good time to cut in. His milky voice grated, too smooth and too practiced. “He ran away, Dara. We're all very concerned about him.”

It felt like falling. Though she knew she was anchored in the chair, Dara felt like everything had dropped from beneath her. The walls pulled away. The fluorescent lights buzzed right in her head. He'd told her, and she hadn't even realized it. That kiss had been good-bye.

“Did he say anything to you?” Sheriff Porter asked.

Slowly, Dara shook her head. “Just that . . . it was a bad day. I told him I was sorry I couldn't fix it.”

Sheriff Porter and the social worker exchanged a look. Right there in front of her, like they thought she couldn't see them. She let her anger spring up. She didn't want to cry in front of them. It was going to be ugly, the kind of sobs that ripped and burned. A flood of tears that would choke her and leave her gasping.

“I don't want to have to go around and round with you,” Sheriff Porter said. He wasn't mad, just resigned. He stroked a hand over her hair, and gave her a look that said,
Honey, please just make this easier for everybody.

“He didn't tell me he was leaving,” Dara said. It was strictly the truth. He'd never said those words. Standing up again, she pulled away from her father.

“We talked about us, all right? How I felt. We kissed, and then he left. He was wearing jeans and a blue coat and tennis shoes. His hair was tied back, and that was three o'clock in the morning, and that's all I know.”

“Dara,” Sheriff Porter said.

“I was in the middle of a test. I have to go.”

Grabbing her stuff, she bolted from the conference room. Being interrogated by her father had become scary regular. If he had to be the sheriff with her, she didn't want to be his little girl. She wouldn't let him use her vulnerability against her. Or Cade. Not today, and not ever again.

I should have patched up his foot and taken him back that night,
she thought, slamming into the bathroom door. Slapping every stall door to make sure they were empty, she barricaded herself in the last one. Locking up, she stepped onto the toilet seat so no one could see her.

Then, finally, she cried.

Forty-three

I
t had never been so hard for Cade to move through his forest.

Everything had bloomed in his absence. Budding trees wore blossoms now. Flowers splashed bright colors through the underbrush. Fat animals darted across his path, no longer lean from the winter. When he crossed the river, he splashed his face. The bright, icy chill sobered him.

Tempted to drink, he sucked his own tongue instead. It wasn't safe unless he boiled it, and he didn't have his travel pack. It was back in Makwa somewhere. Maybe the police station, or still at the hospital.

Instead, Cade searched for dew collected on leaves. Tipping the plants, he collected as much as he could in his hand. It wasn't nearly enough, and it was salty with his sweat. Aching everywhere, he pushed on.

Legs quivering, he forced himself to keep moving. The
rubber-soled shoes made him clumsy. More than once, he tripped. And more than once, he cried out. Grabbing at branches for balance tore at the still-tender wound on his chest. Climbing over houses had been a stupid, stupid idea. He could admit that now.

When the bee hollow came into view, he almost collapsed. Every aching, agonized bit of him cried for it. Just for a minute, just to lay down beneath the trees. Rest his hand on the bark. Feel the warmth inside.

But he was afraid if he didn't get back to the cave now that he never would. It was later in the year, but the nights were still cold. Plenty of spawning animals had marked their territory. Bear cubs and coyote pups feared nothing. They knew their mothers were close behind. He couldn't fight off a bluegill in this condition, let alone a bear.

He pressed on, because there was no point in coming home, just to die. But it was strange. When he finally reached his cave, he didn't fall onto his empty pallet. Everything was where he'd left it. Still packed, the travois waiting to follow the river south. To safety. His fire pit's walls remained strong and tall. Vines crept over the mouth of the cave, hanging like a spring-green veil.

Staggering inside, Cade followed the narrow passage back. Beyond his sleeping place, past the nook where he used to keep his books and his tools. Farther back, where the air cooled, and the walls wept. This had been his mother's space. Plastic bins lined the walls, and Cade had never touched them.

Today, he did.

Peeling one open, he tossed the lid aside. A hurt cry escaped his lips. His mother's scent wafted up. It dug a jagged wound through him. It was cruel, that any part of her was left. That he wanted her back in spite of the lies. He missed her gentle hands on the back of his neck. He missed her songs, and her stories.

He missed his family.

Cade scrubbed an arm across his face. Then he dug into the box. Grey plastic squares. They had a metal flap on them, and a logo imprinted into the side. Zip Disk. When he shook one, it rattled. Behind the metal flap, he found a thin film of plastic.

His mother's handwriting labeled each one. It was faded, but legible:
World Plague Model-Sub-Sahara, WPM-South-Central Asia, WPM-London Cholera Maps, WPM-Zaire EBOV.
There were hundreds, all marked with different locations. Different plagues.

Cade dug deeper. He found plastic folders filled with notes and diagrams. Someone had stapled hideous pictures of bodies contorted with disease to dry explanations of the lesions, point by point. There were papers. Magazines. A newsletter, showing his mother and Dr. O'Toole in a lab, surrounded by maps and anatomical models.

When he finally got to the bottom, Cade dropped the newsletter and stared.

This. This is what she saved.

There weren't more baby pictures or more books about beautiful things. Instead of bringing love letters, or the best movie ever made, she brought disease. The very thing she'd run from, and that was the only thing she kept. It infected her, now it infected this place.

Cade kicked the bin over. With the last of his strength, he picked up the next and smashed it against the wall. Plastic shattered. Falling to his knees, Cade grabbed a rock. He crushed the disks. Smashing them to pieces, throwing their parts deeper into the cave.

When he ran out of strength, he dragged himself to the front of the cave. He didn't quite make it to the pallet. He collapsed beside it, the stone still clutched in his hand.

 

Rubbing Dara's back, Sofia sat sentinel while her best friend had a total nervous breakdown on her bed.

It wasn't the first time Dara had smeared snot and tears on her pillow. She must have broken up with Josh sixty-two times since freshman year. And every single time, Sofia put her back together. That was her job, too. Another sacred duty.

Sofia wasn't sure she could cure this one with salted caramel ice cream and a rousing game of
screw that guy, he sucks!
Though secretly, that's exactly how Sofia felt. Screw Cade for leaving without a good-bye. Dara deserved one.

And so do I,
Sofia thought huffily. She let him hide in her house. They were Wii buddies. She let him totally screw up her iPhone with his monkey paws, and he just up and left.

But those were inside thoughts. Secret, keep-them-in-her-head thoughts. Secrets to be deployed later. After the rawness healed, and everybody moved forward to real lives that had nothing to do with crazy 24/7 news coverage and broken hearts.

“Ready for a mop up?” Sofia asked.

The tissues were at hand, and she offered a sympathetic smile when Dara rolled over. Stuffing Dara's hand with Kleenex, she let her swab her face. Then, she replaced the nasty bundle with a nice, new, clean one.

“How about some pizza therapy?” When Dara shook her head, Sofia offered, “We could go find Kit and beat him with the lacrosse stick some more.”

That made Dara laugh. Not long, or hard. But enough to break the misery for a moment. Sofia plastered a hand on Dara's forehead, looking down into her sad, puffy face. The girl was not a good crier, not by a long shot.

With a groan, Dara peeled herself off the bed. Padding into Sofia's bathroom, she turned on the tap. Water splashed, and Sofia slumped on the bed. The usual tricks probably wouldn't work. It's not like she could say, “Hey, you're going to be fine. And when he sees you being fine, he will
suffer
.”

Well, she could have said it. But it wouldn't have made very much sense. No, Cade had wreaked a special kind of havoc on her best friend. Sofia kind of hoped he'd gone back to the jungle. Because if he had, she could wish for him to get ticks. And lice. With a lovely parting gift of rhinovirus. That was the change she wanted to put into the world.

“I think I know where he is,” Dara said, reemerging. She dried her hands on her shirt, slumping to lean in the door frame.

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

Ugh. The statute of limitations on talking smack about the guy who just trashed her best friend's heart wasn't up yet. Not even close. And Sofia was pretty sure it was going to take a monumental effort to keep her mouth shut. “Honey, I know you feel responsible for him . . .”

“I do,” Dara agreed. “But it's more than that.”

Don't call him a jackass,
Sofia warned herself. To Dara, she said, “Here's the thing, Dare. Let's say everybody's in love, it's healthy, you were going to settle down and have his litter of puppies . . .”

“Ew.”

“Right, I know.” Sofia nodded, wildly agreeable. “But look, he bailed. He had his reasons, whatever, I don't care. You don't leave without saying something. So much for Mr. I'll Fight a Bear for You, everything got crazy and he ditched!”

Brows furrowing, Dara blinked at Sofia. Then she melted, sliding over to the bed to flump beside her. Throw her arms around her even. She pressed her face to Sofia's shoulder and rocked her with a hug. “Aw, boo, you're hurt, too.”

“Get offffff,” Sofia said, trying to peel her way out of Dara's embrace.

“No, but you are. I'm sorry.”

“Don't you be sorry,” Sofia said. “You're not the one who blew.”

“Awww, Sof.”

“You let somebody beat you at Mario Kart, and look what it gets you.”

Sofia succumbed to the wallowing. It was good to share things, sometimes. Though she knew she didn't have near as much invested into Cade, her feelings
were
hurt.

It's not like the last couple of weeks happened in a bubble. It spilled out through town—in her brother's bedroom, and on the side of her house. In her car, in parking lots, in big old box stores that didn't, Cade had pointed out, seem to sell boxes.

Resting her head against Dara's, Sofia nudged. A bump to say
hey, I'm here, you there?
She smiled, just a little, when Dara nudged back.

Things weren't okay, but they would be.