***
Apollon and I part ways in front of the Rustler, but I don't go in. The half-illuminated afternoon air is cold, and Sarah's body, which is turning more skeletal with passing time, is still dangling from the pole on the corner. It makes me think of Coyote Dan. I haven't seen him, but Oscar says he's still alive, and I believe him. While I wonder what's become of him, my mind wanders through a myriad of other disturbing thoughts, rather than settle on just one.
I sit on the raised curb and pull my arms around myself, watching two beggars shuffle down the street. Robed in rags, I can't really see either of them, but one is shorter, frailer, most likely a child. I think of Oscar, of how when I hug him now, all his angles are sharper, pointier. How I can feel his spine under my arm, sticking out of his back like he's a ridged dinosaur. This makes me laugh. He'd like that image. A dinosaur. But it's not funny. Our bodies are slowly wasting, and nothing in the Outpost has seemed to change, except that I've heard no more whispers of contention. Between Sarah and whatever Matt did to Coyote Dan, people are more afraid of Matthew than of starving. At least for now.
Not me. Not when it comes to Oscar, anyway. I'm not exactly sure how the course of starvation runs, but I think now is the point when it starts to become too real. My own hunger pains, I can ignore. The feeling of weakness in my wobbly legs. The way my stomach seems full of bile, like my body wants to digest itself. The dizziness and tiredness. But hugging that bony little creature. No. It can't go any further. It simply can't.
The sound of metal footsteps echoes across the broken pavement. I freeze— don't even breathe— as a Sentry walks by, trailing blue-tinged heat waves. If I make myself still, make myself smaller, maybe I can be part of the landscape. I have the feeling it will turn and look at me— that whatever else it's doing, it's always tracking me. Like, if it looks close enough, it will see through me. I'm suddenly nauseous, trying to hold back the vomit by repeatedly swallowing the saliva that wells into my mouth. Maybe it's hunger, but my head feels emptied of blood, and then too full. I hear my heart pounding in my ears, like someone is crashing two metal lids together with my head caught in between. I go dizzy, and then my face feels hot, my cheeks heavy. I swallow again. And again. The image of the white tower rises up in my mind, as if I'm seeing it in broad daylight. As if I'm not sitting on the curb in the Outpost, but walking my dream. The weight of the image presses down on me, threatening to crush me. I struggle to my feet, needing to run. To go find it, no matter what else I might leave behind.
"Leaving because of it or me?" Matthew's voice breaks me out of my trance. I blink. The metal monster moves on down the street to take up its position at the intersection. Matt is walking toward me, with his redheaded slave attached to his arm. The bracelet she wears— the one that bears his mark— is etched silver, a delicate thing that's more adornment than brand. Up close, she's even prettier, striking with red curls, eyes more blue than any sky I've ever seen, and skin like freshly poured cream. Her features are exquisite, as if her bloodline is full of fairies— creatures too perfect for this world. Matt dismisses her with a shrug, and she slips inside the Rustler wordlessly. I watch her go, the silver bracelet dangling on her pale arm.
It makes me think, for some reason, of the tattoo on my lip. What if, somewhere, tens or hundreds of other slaves are walking around with the same brand?
Matt's waiting patiently for me to answer. I glance from the Sentry to him. "It," I say quietly. I have to turn and look at his face to avoid another flush of eeriness that threatens to overwhelm me when I see the machine.
He glances toward the Sentry, then walks to my side, as if my answer satisfies him. "You stupid girl," he says, but the words have no sting. He sits down on the curb next to me, so I sit with him. "I had to do it, you know," he says, his voice quiet. "You should have known better than to put yourself between us."
I just look out into the street and nod. He's right. I should have known better. I'm lucky Colton didn't stab me for planting myself in front of Coyote Dan, and really, if I think about it, the only reason he didn't is because Matt clocked me first. But Coyote Dan is alive, which, maybe he wouldn't have been if I hadn't stepped in. Then, maybe Matt wasn't going to kill him anyway. I look sideways at him, wondering.
He glances at me, then watches some people pass by in the street. It's my turn to talk, I suppose, but I don't really know what to say. I know what I want to say, but I can't just blurt it out. I have to work up to it. I lick my lips, then I say, "So how's the whole thing going? You know. The food thing."
His jaw tightens for an instant. "Surely there are more interesting things we could talk about."
My laugh is small and bitter. It's hard to be interested in anything when you're hungry. Weariness pushes me forward, and suddenly I don't care about working up to things. I blurt it out. "You said you'd look after Oscar," I say, and I look at him pointedly.
His eyes flash wider, then narrow. He starts to shake his head, rocks forward like he's about to get up.
I set my hand on his forearm, stopping him. "You said," I insist softly.
Matt's eyes are still narrowed on me, but there's a subtle, slow settling of his face and body. He hardly moves, but I can see him relax. Then a smile, also slow, creeps onto his face. "I'll look after you, too," he says, eyes half-closed like he's basking in the sun.
I withdraw my hand and look back into the street. There's no one walking by right now, so I'm just staring into space. I consider my words before I say them. Choosing the wrong ones could be disastrous. I speak them softly, and carefully. "I don't like the idea of anyone looking after me. That's something I need to do for myself."
A puff of air is the extent of Matthew's answering laugh. Next to me, he's also gazing into the empty street. Silence stretches over us for a few moments, sinking in so deeply that, when he does speak, it feels unexpected. "We're not so different, you know," he says, his voice thoughtful and quiet. "You think we are. That you're so much better than me. That I do things you would never do. But you don't know that. You could have been exactly like me. Maybe you still are." Not subtly, he glances at the mark on my forehead. Before I can stop myself, my hand flies to it, my fingers brushing over the letter inked into my skin. I grab a handful of hair and rake it down over my forehead, look away. But all I can think is, what if he's right?
I try to breathe. Try not to consider his prompt. But my head swirls with questions that make my body suddenly restless. I want to know who I am, what I'm about. But I will never know these things. I'm not meant to know. And still, the yearning has come again. Matt has directed me toward it. This is the real cruelty of his words.
"Oscar," I say. The word is clipped. I barely manage to get it out. I cannot hide this anger. I can only hold it back from an explosion.
For a moment, I think, he's considering whether he'll allow me to be angry. I feel cold and small inside. Powerless. But he sighs, and it passes. He looks annoyed as he climbs to his feet. Nothing more. "Just remember this was your idea," he says. "You asked me for this." He turns and walks into the Rustler.
I close my eyes and let out my breath. His words ring with the hint of a threat. Not one that Matt is fabricating and throwing at me, but one that's inherent to the situation. He's merely pointing it out. In trusting Matt to take care of Oscar physically, I'm giving Oscar over to his influence. Sending that which is innocent and precious into the den of a wolf. And those who are raised by wolves become wolves. I can only hope that this will be temporary. That eventually, there will be another option. But right now, there's not. And if I'm really honest about it, none of us might make it that far, anyway. Survival has come down to the moment. In this moment, this is all I can do. Like it or not. Consequences or not. Frightening as hell or not. For now, Oscar has to be Matt's. This is the way he survives.