Blaze

4. Dark Fires

"I don't want to."

I clamp my lips. For a moment, I'm afraid I accidentally thought aloud, but a quick look around reveals the words' true source. They don't come from me after all. Or Tim. Or even Jackie.

They come from my brother.

It's never too difficult to read him, but it doesn't help that his hair's created something of a veil in front of his face, shiny and messy. It also un-helps that my thoughts are oppressed by the heat, my tongue and my lips cracked and shriveled—almost like I've been crying. Crying for so hard and for so long that nearly all the water in my body was drained in one giant driiiip.

Mechanical, I move toward Austin and part his hair. Tucking the sweat-stiffened locks behind his ears. Ignoring the way his mouth parts open in protest. My hand moves without any conscious thought, and when I pull away, he shrinks back and frowns at me.

"I hate it when you do that," he says.

Maybe it's the sullen curve to his lips, or the way his eyes crinkle up and narrow and flit around, like I've just embarrassed him in some manner. Maybe it's the low chuckle I feel building in my chest. Either way, that's all it takes for me to remember how young he is. And that's too young.

My chuckle dies for good.

"Cut your hair, then," I retort in a low voice.

He doesn't answer me just yet, and it's almost like our charged quiet amplifies the smell of death. I repress a cough, but my chest silently heaves anyway. Everywhere, on everything—the deer's stench boils and festers, hitting my nose in waves. My eyes turn warm, things start to get blurry. But my ears still make out the kind of zipping noise that can only be attributable to insects; I bring my arms out reflexively, ready to swat.

Flies.

God.

With my eyes half-seeing, I can't tell if the deer's still, or shifting and twitching unnoticed. It can't be alive. I know that. But...

But a fairly large part of me still expects a twitch. A something.

Then my eyes clear and so does the road, along with the blood that stains it.

The buck's dead. Definitely dead.

"I don't want to move it," Austin repeats.

I make my quiet voice firm, although I'm aware my caved-in cheeks and bloodied lips paint me as more pitiful than intimidating. (There's no other way to be, I've learned, unless you're a Bandit.) "I don't want to start this with you."

"He's not starting anything," Jackie croaks. She won't look at me. It's like Tim's averted eyes have become contagious; or rather, like I'm contagious. Like they think looking my way will cause their clothes to redden, too. "It's already finished. He doesn't want to. Leave him out of it."

Although I don't move, she stiffens once again. It's the same sudden, defensive action as before. I want to ask her if—and if yes, why—she's afraid of me, but this isn't the time. I know that. I have bigger problems at hand.

One of them is that I can't leave Tim out of this.

I'm not strong enough to drag the deer on my own. I know it. They know it. They know I know it. I don't have the means to force them to cooperate, either—all I can do is hope to convince them.