Rise

seventeen

THE ROAD SPREAD OUT IN FRONT OF US, RUNNING ALONG THE ridgeline and out into the sky. As we started into Death Valley we kept climbing, higher into the mountains, the salt floor hundreds of feet below. I tried to steady my hands, but they still shook, the sour sting of bile in the back of my throat. My legs ached; my feet were cracked and swollen. The tender spot between my shoulder blades hurt from carrying the bag for so many miles. I'd tried to stay on a schedule, drinking some of the boiled rain-water every three hours. But with every mile my thoughts returned to the baby, wondering if we'd both survive.

Each day that went by, each morning I woke up with the same queasiness, was another confirmation that she was still alive, that we were together. It was easy to go there, whenever my thoughts wandered, to imagine what she would look like, what she would be like, if she'd have Caleb's pale green eyes or my fair complexion. Sometimes I'd let myself imagine the possibility of Califia, of a life like the one Maeve had assembled for Lilac. I'd think up a houseboat or imagine one of the abandoned cabins that were perched in the mountains over the bay, trying to picture what those dark rooms would be like if they were cleaned and restored, the thick vines cleared from the windows.

On my clearest days, when the truth kept presenting itself to me, I knew that life in Califia was part fantasy. As long as my father was alive he'd always be looking for me-for us. I was probably already on the billboards inside the City, listed among the rebels. However hard it had been to avoid the soldiers before, it would be even harder now.

"I can't walk anymore," Helene called out. She knelt down a few yards ahead, her eyes squinting against the morning sun. "When is the next stop?"

"We just started," Clara pointed out. "We've been on the road for less than an hour." She slowed in front of me, the plastic sled skidding on the pavement behind her. We traded on and off, dragging it along, bringing the few supplies we'd collected in the past four days. Old blankets and clothes were wrapped around the last bottles of water. We still had five unmarked cans left, some plastic rope, and tape, as well as an unopened bottle of alcohol we'd found in a cellar. Our only map-the folded sheet Moss had given me-was tucked into the waist of my pants, right beside my knife.

"I can't help it. It hurts," Helene said, her braids falling in her face as she examined her shoe. She wore the same pair she'd brought from the hospital. The leather slippers were broken in the back, her heels bloody and raw.

I turned back, looking over my shoulder. I could still see the gas station a mile back-the only structure on the ridgeline. We'd spent the night there, the small, cramped room providing relief from the wind that ripped through the valley. "Try this," I said, grabbing an old roll of duct tape nestled in the sled. My eyes met Beatrice's-she was the one who'd insisted we take it from under the broken cash register, saying we could use it, if only for makeshift bandages.

"I'm thirsty," Bette said, grabbing for a bottle in the sled.

"Not until the next break." I took it back, hiding it beneath the blankets, out of sight. "This has to last us until the next lake."

Bette turned away without acknowledging me, as she'd done for most of these first days. She threaded her arm through Kit's, a girl with deep auburn hair that cascaded down her back. She'd tied it back with string she'd found along the way, but it was always coming loose.

"You all right?" Clara said softly, as Helene finished bandaging her foot. "You don't look well."

I glanced ahead, where the other girls walked together in small groups, their steps slow and uneven. "Just the usual," I said, shaking out my hands, waiting for the quaking in my stomach to pass. Beatrice and Sarah turned back, watching me over their shoulders, as I paused at the edge of the road, where the pavement dropped down a steep incline. "Go ahead. I'll catch up."