My heart lurches when I see his face.
Miles’s skin has taken on a sickly purple color. His eyes have begun to film over, white cloud spread over the lake green. This hasn’t happened before. The Rite-travelers’ bodies never deteriorated. Although I feel a stab of panic, I reassure myself that this case is different. It was hot in the back of the truck, and besides . . . my clan members were in perfect health. Miles was already dying. This has to work.
I close his eyelids, smooth back the honey-colored curls, and kiss him lightly on his mottled forehead. “Please come back, Miles,” I urge, and continue unzipping the bag, exposing his overheated corpse to the cooler air in the shadow of the rocks.
He looks too vulnerable, lying there naked. I pull his bloodstained clothes out of my backpack and dress him, shuffling his limp body back and forth until I’ve got him in underwear and jeans. I stand back to look at my work, and something in my heart tugs. An unfamiliar ache that confirms just how much this boy means to me.
I pull myself away and begin setting up camp, pitching the tent between the truck and the rocks. Although we’re hidden, my senses are on high alert. I realize that I’m reacting as I did in Alaska: on continual lookout for brigands. Ready to defend myself against survivors of an apocalypse that never happened. Even though my real-life enemies are nothing like the desperate marauders of my nightmares, they are more frightening because I don’t know what to expect from them. They are unknown entities using unfamiliar methods.
Without thinking, I reach for my crossbow and then remember that it’s gone. I dropped it during the scuffle with Whit’s men in Salt Lake City. I can make myself another one if I find some suitable wood. In the absence of my preferred weapon, I get out my bowie knife and set it beside the fire. Its steel will be my security tonight.
I glance up at the sky. It’s a couple of hours before sunset. Suddenly ravenous, I remember that I haven’t eaten since morning. I am too exhausted to make a fire, so I end up eating beef stew straight out of the can, and finish it off with a small stack of crackers.
The disappearing sun fills the sky with reds, oranges, and pinks that are almost as stunning as a borealis back home. Scanning the horizon one last time for cars or wandering travelers, I unfurl a sheet inside the tent and lie down. Miles still has hours to go before he will awake (because he will awake) and I need to rest while I can. Minutes pass as I stare at the top of the tent, immune to sleep. Finally I give in to what I want, scoop up my covering, and return to the truck.
Spreading my blanket by the sleeping bag, I lie down next to Miles. I scoot back until I feel him behind me, then close my eyes and sleep.
I awaken with a start. A noise just came from somewhere nearby. A whisper. I sit up and scan the sky until I find the North Star and the moon. Their positions tell me that it’s somewhere between ten and eleven. Miles should have awakened by now.
I place my hand over his mouth and nose. He’s not breathing.
My heart swells painfully. Becomes the size of a balloon. Threatens to pop.
I know I did the Rite correctly, but what if he had lost too much blood before it took effect? Tears scrape the back of my eyes, and I lower my head to rest it on his chest. And I hear something. A heartbeat.
I sit back up, and watch as Miles’s lips twitch and his mouth opens. He takes a sudden breath, filling his lungs with air before coughing it back out.
“Miles!” I yell.
“Juneau,” he whispers. “I can’t move.” His words are ragged. Forced. His eyes remain closed.
“It’s okay, Miles,” I urge. I’m so overcome with emotion, I can barely speak. I wipe a tear away. “You just woke from death-sleep. You won’t be able to move for a while.”
“I can’t see,” he says, and I reach over and open his eyes. The white film, though still there, is clearing up.
“It’s you,” he breathes.
I lean over and kiss him lightly. “You’re alive.”
“Thanks to you and your New Age juju,” he says through stiff lips. I laugh and flush with relief. Death has not changed Miles.
“You’re part of that juju now,” I respond. “You’re one with the Yara, Miles. You’re not going to die for a very long time.”
He closes his eyes and is able to open them again. After a long moment he says, “I had dreams about that, while I was . . . dead or whatever.”
I nod, and want to ask him about his Path. Every Rite-traveler comes back with different tales. The settings rarely vary, but their experiences on the Path are as different as the person traveling it. And with Miles’s past . . . with his situation . . . I can’t even imagine what he had to face. But I won’t ask now. He needs time to understand what all of it means. To accept what has happened to him.