“I don’t know Tunisian geography much better than you do, Rin. I don’t know.”
She frowns, winces. “Fuck, my head hurts.”
“I would think so—you were shot, after all.”
She looks at me. “Your arm.”
I look down and realize all the activity has reopened the wound—it’s bleeding rather profusely, as a matter of fact. “Nothing for it, and I don’t think I will bleed out. It’s just seeping.”
“Does it hurt?” she asks. “Dumb question, probably.”
“Like hell,” I agree. I laugh. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”
She sighs. “We did it, Apollo.”
“We sure did.” I look at her. “I can’t believe you’re here. I…you…how did you get inside the fort, anyway?”
Her expression closes down. “I don’t want to talk about that right now.”
I look at her hard, in between glances to make sure we’re not going to hit a tree—since we don’t seem to be pursued anymore, I’ve slowed down to a manageable pace. “Corinna. What did you do?”
“What I fucking had to, okay?” she snaps it at me, angry and shut down.
“Corinna, you mistake me. I’m grateful. I’m…in awe of you. You came for me. You rescued me.”
Her expression softens as she looks at me, finally. “Of course I did, Apollo. Did you really think I wouldn’t?”
She’s on the far side of the truck, against the far door. I reach for her. “Come closer.”
She eyes me, then sets her rifle aside and slides across the bench; I’m driving so I can’t put an arm around her, but I can touch a quick kiss to her forehead, which is dotted with scabbed blood spots and spatters.
“Tell me what happened, Corinna.”
She swallows audibly, followed by a shivery in-breath. A long silence, except for the guttural roar of the diesel motor and the wind noise.
“I can’t. I can’t relax. Not till I’m sure we’re…safe. Or something like it. I can’t…once I break down, I’m not going to stop. And I can’t break down, right now.”
“Okay.” I touch her thigh, briefly. “I’m here with you, now, Corinna. You’re not alone.”
Another silence. “I…I did horrible things, Apollo,” she whispers.
“You did them for me. For Yelena.”
A nod. “But still horrible—awful.”
“Don’t think about it right now,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I can’tnotthink about it.” She points ahead—there’s a clearing in the hypnotic array of rows. “I think I see someone ahead.”
I squint and realize she’s right: a small truck with a few men clustered around it, carrying pruning shears, taking a break.
I slow the truck as we approach—their truck is blocking the row-end. One of them scrambles behind the wheel and backs their vehicle up to allow us out, the rest staring at us. I suppose we’re an usual sight: an old military truck, riddled with bullets, inside of which are two very muchnonlocals.
One of them approaches my side as the truck squeals to a stop, and he queries me in Arabic.
I shrug. “Tunis?”
He stares at me a moment, blinking. We’re at a decent-sized road; he points along it, to our left. “Two kilometer.”
