Raised by the Mafia

36. Flying Blind (Ryan)

I'm flying blind in more ways than one. I would trade my toes to have my glasses back. That's one. Naz isn't telling me something crucially important. That's two. And if I ask her a pointed question, and my guess is wrong, it's going to tear the trust between us to shreds. Which takes me to a thousand... to a million... to infinity.

I'd rather be blind than to lose her trust. Maybe it's newfound, but it's real. My guts tell me this. It's worth more than anything else right now, so I trudge on in silence, except for the Argument.

The damnable point of contention smolders like the underside of a charred log and throws out a lick of flame once in a while. I tell her she needs to eat more. She rejoins that I'm bigger than her and carry our pack. Sometimes I add that I can't carry her even if I eat all the emergency rations, because I'm not a fucking hobbit. That's it, that's the Argument. On a good day we can do better than that, but these are lousy days. Tired, hungry, achy... and that's on top of the uncertainty about our survival.

We've been hiking on the dirt-beaten—or, given the season, mud-splattering—roads for the last two days. Hamlets and even villages sneak up on us as we're closing on our destination. Gleb's buddies aren't camping in some bear's den. They're too civilized for that.

Yesterday, we slept in an abandoned house with faded pictures staring at us from the walls all night; smiling babies, hugging people, a bride with flowers. Anything of value was cleared out. The sentimental stuff stayed behind. When hardship erodes hope, things become just things, and memories of past happiness mock you. I've been there.

Thankfully, while our trust holds, Naz and I have the will to go on. Neither of us tries anything stupid, like running to the first house with the lights on and begging for a phone.

We look away from these temptations and trudge on.

Finally, we reach a prosperous farm. It shelters in the bottom of a valley that opens up onto an even wider valley and bountiful Georgia. Gleb knew how to go to ground in style. A shallow, protected slope is even terraced for a vineyard, a pricey, risky undertaking.

Other than that, the farm has the usual stuff for these parts. Fruit trees line up on every patch of even ground. In the shelter of the limestone walls, they're already boiling with white and pink blossoms. Sheep are bleating. A rooster is crooning. The dogs are howling.

Howling?

I exchange a loaded glance with Naz. We creep toward the edge of a vantage point just above the property. The dogs don't bay like that for nothing in the middle of the afternoon. They're smelling strangers. Given the wind's direction, we should be too far for them to catch our scent, no matter how pungent we've become.

Naz presses her hand on my shoulder and hand-signals that she'll climb down for a look. I don't argue. Hiking took its toll. Toothache and headaches wear me out even more. It's good to have someone you trust to do the work.

I take the backpack off, ready the weapons and crouch in the shadow of a gigantic chunk of rock. It probably broke off hundreds of years ago, and rolled down until slough stole its momentum.

Naz clears it, then she is gone from my blurry field of vision. I chew my lips and count minutes until her return. She comes back after three centuries, give or take, wearing a frown.

"They beat us to Gleb's partner, Ryan."

For a second I let fatigue overpower me and shut my eyes with a sigh. "Of course, they did."

Something pokes me for attention. With an even deeper sigh I look. She has a stick. Satisfied with my level of alertness, she draws a plan in the white dirt by my feet.