She pressed her palm against the blossomed red on Chance’s torso. Macy knew it was a mistake to check on the wound. She made this an opportunity to carefully clean the blotted bandaging off, and to give him water from an old Gatorade bottle. But, he still refused it. Everyday, he had grown more pallid, she was no doctor, but she knew enough that losing color was, of course, a bad sign. He had lost too much blood and needed more than rolls of gauze, small scrapes of hydrotracin, and her wanting him to make it for him to survive. Macy calculated the following in her head: two days ago at Fishkill placed them a mere five hours from the safety of Pollopel Island Hill. She didn’t know who would be at the Bannerman, but she knew that Chance would live as long as they got to the base of the island.
With the strength that lived in Macy’s arms, Chance was placed back into the groove his body had carved into hers. For two days she carried him across her back, fitting his chin into her clavicle, and his Adam’s apple into her deltoids draped over her like elastic puzzle pieces. With some stripped flannel shirts, she made a sling where most of Chance’s weight lay. The feel of his broadness against her back was reassuring; she no longer looked forward to journeys alone. She found comfort in the heat he provided.
In the distance, Macy heard a low rumble. She gripped onto his wrists with the hollows of her fingers for guidance, as if they told stories: the month Chance waited for her, the portals, Lara… Macy shook her head to regain focus. There was no point in thinking about those who they had lost in the last 97 days. What mattered most was for Chance to wake up. To speak. To live.
Macy held his wrists more tightly, she noticed how Chance’s body felt so small and soft. The vulnerability to death stripped him of the hazel in his eyes, his tenacity in combat, and the asshole comebacks. One wouldn’t think that this was the same man who’d saved his clan from an Aux army. On her back, Chance bore the fragility of a glass boy leaning towards death.
She looked up and could see the Bannerman Castle ruins in the distance, propped high against a hill. With the mask of dawn rooting for her, she secured his body against her back and said, “Okay, Chance. This is it. You and me.” She checked the knot of the plaid sling tied to her waist. She took a deep breath, a long sigh, and with her remaining energy, Macy broke out into a sprint with the sun chasing her back.
