Condemned

17 | Sam

The sound of a close passing car is enough to rouse Jael back to consciousness.

I left him in a ditch beside his truck while I was trying to figure out where he may have left his keys.

I'm rounding the back of the truck, keys in hand, when he lurches to a sitting position, startled, confused, and scared—it all passes through his features—and then he seems to regret moving at all, when the pain and dizziness hijack his senses.

When the worst of it subsides, I'm crouching in front of him. Our gazes collide. It's hard to believe that mine is stronger and steadier. It seems to knock his for a loop.

"You found them," he comments, eyes settling on the keyring around my finger.

"Behind your front tire."

"Right." He uses the hand cradled by his injured shoulder to massage his temple. "How did you. . . ?" He slides his good foot around, trying to determine what he's sitting on.

"Get you here? Good question. I found an empty case of beer and used the cardboard to drag you here. That peak was intense, but it was all downhill from there. Gravity did most of the work." I rise to standing and open the passenger side door for him.

"I'm sorry." His foot slips out from under him as he makes his initial attempt to get up. "For everything," he sighs, collapsing to where he started. "I said things, did things—"

"Forget it," I cut him off. The situation is still too grim for any conversation beyond what is necessary. His body was wise to shut it down.

He needs medical attention. We both need clean, warm clothing and some heat. And a whole lot of rest. That, of course, will have to wait. And my gut tells me, it'll be a while. I probably won't even see a bed until dawn and that's when I have to get up for class...

I hand him the jeans and underwear that are sitting on the passenger seat. "You took two bullets for me. It's the least I could do." I separate his flannel shirt from the T-shirt underneath and keep the T-shirt for myself.

While I slip that on, he's dragging his jeans up to his knees, not bothering with his underwear. It's too much extra work or he has other plans for them.

I turn my back as he lays down to finish up.

When I face him again, he's setting my soiled sweatshirt down beside him. He then places his underwear in a wad by his wounded hip and buttons up at the waist. With another groan, he hauls himself back to a sitting position. After what looks like a seasick sway, he reaches his hand out for mine. On the count of three, I pull him to a hunch and deposit him in the passenger seat, bit by injured bit.

I drape the flannel over his shoulders, catching his sad, remorseful gaze for the split-second I'm bold enough to look back. Then I clean up the area, smudging blood and obvious footsteps with a tree branch, so no one will ever know we were here, not without dogs or a forensics team. I toss the clothing he was using as a bandage into the truck by his feet, discard the flattened beer box in the woods, and get in the driver's seat.

I'm not one of those people who can jump into a strange car at night and immediately know what I'm doing, but I try not to let it show, figuring out the basics.

At long last, I pull onto the road and pick up as much speed as I can safely manage. Less than half a mile later, we round a bend and approach a group of people by Ian's car. I duck down as we pass. Jael cradles his head in his hand. He's met both Ian and Ted before and not under the subtlest circumstances.

Once I feel confident enough to lift my head and check the rearview mirror, I notice only one person watching us. Her curiosity doesn't heighten, though, and nothing seems to come of it.