Rise

twenty

BETTE KEPT WAVING BACK AND FORTH, JUMPING UP AND DOWN, trying to signal to the motorcycle. "Over here!" she yelled out. "We're here!"

I ran as quickly as I could, throwing my arms around hers, pinning them to her sides. "Do you know what you've done?"

The moonlight cast strange shadows on her face. "I did what you wouldn't," she said. "She needs help. You said yourself she could die."

The motorcycle was coming closer, zipping along the ridgeline. I kicked dirt over the fire, a tiny pile of twigs and brush, scattered with a few burned matches she must've stolen from the supplies. Then I grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the motel. It all came back to me, rushing in, washing away every other thought. In an instant, I could see Marjorie and Otis on the cellar floor, her body slumped over his, her braid soaked with blood. I'd recognized the risk of bringing the radio along, knowing what could happen, knowing how much danger we would be in if one of the girls used it. I'd buried it in the bottom of the bag where only Beatrice, Clara, and I would know to find it.

Bette dug her heels in the dirt, pulling us both to a stop. "I'm getting her help," she repeated. "We need someone to bring her a doctor."

"That's not how it works," I said. She struggled against my grasp but I held on, not letting her go. "When did you send out the message? What did you say?"

The headlight sped closer. The soldier was just a dark figure silhouetted against the sky, his back hunched slightly, the motorcycle packed with supplies. I'd never seen just one soldier, but I'd heard the boys at the dugout speak of it, how sometimes they'd run surveillance from storehouses or government checkpoints. If he was canvassing, that meant there were others close by, not more than fifty miles off.

"Yesterday night," she said. "When you were sleeping. I said where we were."

I pulled her back toward the motel, using my full force. "You need to hurry," I said, looking at the small cluster of buildings ahead of us. There were only three wooden structures and an abandoned store, the parking lots scattered with cars, their tires torn away from the metal rims. It wouldn't take the soldier more than a few minutes to search the buildings. Our only advantages were that there were more of us, and we knew the layout of the motel.

I picked up the pace, running toward the back of the building, Bette close behind. The motorcycle approached too quickly. I heard it coming up the ridgeline, closing the gap between us. There was the terrible grating of the tires on pavement, the sound of the brakes. Just as we'd nearly reached the motel, the engine turned off, returning the outside world to silence.

He didn't call out, as the soldiers often did, ordering us to turn, to make ourselves known. I didn't look at him, instead bringing Bette around the side of the building, through the parking lot, to the back entrance. I pushed open the lobby's glass door, sending off the dull clinking of chimes somewhere above. "We have to move into the back rooms," I yelled out, pointing to the dark hallway farthest away from the road. "We've been found. Go-quickly."

Bette stood by the door, unsure what to do. A few of the girls startled from where they slept. Clara hovered by the lobby's front entrance, where she had been watching us as the motorcycle approached. She dropped the curtain and turned to me. "He's not there anymore," she said, going to the windows on the other side of the door. "I don't see him."

I scanned the lobby, but it was so dark it was hard to make out anyone's face. Beatrice and Sarah helped Helene to her feet. I felt for the knife at my hip, reassured that it was there. As I grabbed Kit's hand, shoving her out to the side hall, I heard the bells clank together, a sound so sudden it raised the fine hairs on my arm. There was the quick clomping of boots on the tile floor, then his slow, labored breathing, as the man grabbed Bette by the arm, holding a gun to the side of her ribs.