Chapter 20

My body molds to hers, my arm slipping around her waist, my lips brushing the back of her head. With our bodies squeezed close, the narrow cot is enough for the two of us. The light from the candle is gone. Only a thin orange glow seeps into the room from beneath the bottom of the door. We lie so close my words become hers and hers become mine.

How did this happen to us?

Why?

My hand covers hers, gently rubbing it.

I lost track of time.

There was no time.

I thought it would never end.

After centuries of waiting and wondering, we needed more time to talk than Gatsbro ever gave us. It was all about lessons and tests and how wonderful we were and never about the darkness that still lived in us.

I called out. Every minute. Every day. You were the only one who answered.

How could we hear each other? Gatsbro says it was impossible.

But we did.

We did.

Maybe the impossible is possible when you take everything else away.

When nothing is left, maybe you can reach for something that no one knew existed.

Or maybe we became something new.

Maybe we made it exist.

My words. Her words. Our words. I don't know where one begins and the other ends. I want to stay here holding her forever.

The accident was her fault.

She wasn't driving.

Her car. Her fault.

She was your best friend.

Was.

Was. I lift my hand to brush her hair from her cheek.

Why didn't she help us?

Maybe she didn't know.

We heard her. In the beginning she was there with us.

It was such a short time.

She knew. I heard her screams.

I thought she had died when she was silent.

But she left us. She left without helping us.

I pull her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair.

What will become of us, Kara?

We'll make a life.

Together.

Together.

Together where? Kara has never lived on the streets. She went from one privileged life to another.

Do you still like poetry, Locke?

Poetry?

You never recite poetry anymore. Not once since we woke. Not like you used to. Then. Before. Did you only do it for--

Her.

My mind races. Poetry was lifetimes ago. No. I don't care about poetry. I'm a different person from that Locke. How can she even think about that now?

Locke, was it only for--

For you, Kara. Just for you....

Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;

You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face....

"The fairest," she whispers, and then I hear her gentle breaths of sleep.