¹POCKET FULL OF POSIES. p. jackson

viii. Man and the Great Descent

chapter eight
❛ man and the great descent ❜

━━━━━  THE NEXT TWO days were spent on the Amtrak train, barreling west through hills, over rivers, and past waves of amber grain. There weren't any attacks within those forty-eight hours; however, Josephine's unease didn't lessen any. It felt like she and the others were traveling around in a glass display case, being watched from above and even from below. It was like something — or someone — was waiting for the right opportunity.

              Josephine was just anxious for what that "opportunity" was, and when it would rear its ugly head.

              She found herself restless, constantly fidgeting with her hands — anything to keep herself occupied. She needed anything to keep her mind occupied; anything to keep her brain from thinking of the quest. But she found it impossible. Everything reminded her of the quest — the three she was traveling with, the constant rattle of the train, the lack of backpacks, and especially the band-aids littering her forearms. Subconsciously, she picked at the band-aids, the adhesive starting to wear down.

              Across their Amtrak seats, her elbows on the table, Annabeth watched her. "You need more band-aids?"

              Josephine glanced up for a split second, momentarily forgetting the others were nearby. "Probably," she quietly admitted.

              Annabeth was silent for a moment, her grey eyes traveling to the aisle. Suddenly, she stood up. "Here. I'll get 'em for you."

              Josephine frowned, going to say something to the daughter of Athena, but Annabeth walked away before she could. She stared off after Annabeth, until a few minutes later — the blonde came back with handfuls of tan-colored band-aids. She slid into the open seat beside Josephine, laying all of the band-aids on the table. Together, Annabeth and Josephine applied band-aids to the peeling, fraying ones — Annabeth would peel the plastic backing off, helping Josephine line the absorption pad along the wound as best they could, and then, press it down.

              Josephine could tell that Annabeth was itching to ask a question — her eyebrows were knitted together as her lips pursed. It was her thinking face, and Annabeth was always thinking of something. "You can ask, you know," she said abruptly, breaking the silence between them. She rubbed the last band-aid down on her arm, hoping that Annabeth wouldn't ask. "I ... know you want to ask something. That thing — the boils —"

              "Not that." Annabeth shook her head, surprising Josephine. "You say you don't — Well, I have some ideas about that. And I think it may be something that you did, even if you don't know what it is, but —" She paused, her frown deepening. "If it happens again, we know for sure it's you. If not ..." she trailed off, "I dunno, then."

              The silence hung for a few, but long, moments. It was rare for a child of Athena to ever admit they didn't know something, let alone Annabeth Chase, a girl who prided herself on knowing everything. Somehow, that made Josephine a lot more nervous — Annabeth didn't know, and there was still a chance that the green mist did come from Josephine. "You really think those boils came from ... me?" she asked.

              The daughter of Athena stared at her. "You don't?"

              She's right, that cruel voice spoke up. You know what you caused: a curse.

              Josephine looked off, frowning. "I ... I don't know. But if it was —"

              "We'll figure it out," Annabeth promised. "There's nothing that doesn't have an answer."