Wildfire: The underdog

Chapter 32: "What now?"

Day 285

Sprouts on patches of white carpet began to blossom on another layer of an already warm ground. Winter was leaving, and spring came in subtly.

The engine from Mark's truck hummed as he drove through the meadows in this quiet one-hour ride. Bits of the lasting snowstorm racked up months' worth of its aftermath onto the side of the road and underneath the cypress trees. Snow had even accumulated above the cylinder bale stacks past a wheat field where a barn rested miles ahead. A few petrified tree logs swallowed by the grandeur of the farm were there, resembling the state of decay and abandonment.

Mark had one hand on the steering wheel and the other gripping above. Through the open window remnants of the lingering winter, the breeze pelted my face, freezing the tip of my nose and sending shivers all over. These last months in hibernation stripped Heath—who was half asleep in the rear-view mirror—of the saturation from his skin.

Jonah, on the other hand, was wide awake. He was adamant about making it to the safe house used by his uncle when he escaped The Voyagers.

From there, we would walk to the Alaska Marine Highway, a line of ferries that would take us on a 90-hour ride in destination to Alaska. But before doing that, Jonah'd said we would have to meet up with his uncle.

"For the money," Jonah'd said in the back of Mark's truck before leaving. He'd leaned back, fiddling with a makeshift stake he carved the day after, a distraction from talking to me that he found on the dock near the lake. The silence between us had been uncomfortable—weird, even. But hearing Jonah speak to me after wordless days felt out of place. "We make it to the safe house, catch the ferry, reach Alaska—" Jonah paused abruptly to stare at me. The sun radiated his cheekbones, enhancing his skin to a golden glow.

I nodded quietly, giving Jonah some pretentious reassurance.

That was the original agreement, the one we'd been planning for months. But there was also guilt. One that has been slowly brewing, spreading like a disease and swallowing me from the inside like a parasite.

My parents. Mom and Dad. I missed them so much.

Jonah had expressed some of that remorse too. He seemed determined about everything: us finding the safehouse along with clues meant to help us on our journey.

But that's where his confidence ended. Jonah didn't say another word about making it to Alaska, and when he did, it was with doubt. With Jonah, I have never felt unsure about our choices since we knew we would solve them.

There was never a need to question his integrity.

But I couldn't help but wonder: what was he hiding from me exactly?

***

"Do you want us to wait outside?"

Mark yelled, setting the emergency brake near the pebbled road. The evening turned into cloudy, grey shades, desaturating the bitter grass blades, swept by the tide, salty wind past the cabin towards Mark's truck.

The cabin, Ricardo's hideout: the safe house.

Coming here was no different than my past trips to the mall. No obstacles in the way, no hidden routes to get here—even the cabin was in an open field, making it easy to see if anyone drove away from the main road for two minutes.

Other than a distant town passed a bridge that Mark had driven past, the cabin was quite remote.

No electricity ran through the opaque lightbulb as Jonah headed past the single entrance and pulled the cord. The interior was spacious enough to occupy a twin-size bed with oxidated frames, a chipped charcoal oven, and a massive cobweb on one corner fit for a guitar. There were also five windows: two next to the robust door, one on each panel, and the last near the bed canopy giving sight of the beach and the waves in their patient fluidity.