I take his hand again, hold it in both of mine. His hand is large, and strong. Not work-roughened and callused, but nor is it soft.
“I’m sorry, Corinna,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry my past forced you to do those things. I wish I could take it away.”
I shake my head focus on the solid reality of his hand in mine. “Will you tell me again, Apollo?”
He leans across the space between our seats, his lips ghosting across the shell of my ear.
He whispers, so quietly, so softly: “I love you, Corinna. I love you.”
I’m not sure ifsleepis the right word for what I do, then. But it’s sure as hell better than being awake.
13
Evasions and Evaluations
Staying awake through those long hours is one of the harder things I’ve had to do. My eyes burn, droop. The night, out here, is fairly silent. Occasionally, a car will drift past, lights like yellow spears across the cracked pavement. None stop.
Beside me, Corinna sleeps. Or, near to sleep. She’s restless, uncomfortable. Dreaming. Remembering. I hold her hand—or rather, she holds mine in both of hers, clinging to my hand as if it’s some kind of lifeline keeping her from drowning.
I’m losing the battle against exhaustion, eyes growing heavy. I pinch myself. Breathe in deeply, hold it, let it out. Focus on watching the road, the sidewalk, the sparse clusters of low, misshapen trees across from the alley.
I’m fighting the drowsiness with everything I have, but I’m losing.
My eyes close.
I snap awake, suddenly, starting with a gasp. I’m not sure why, at first.
A pair of headlights creeps past the alley, and the lance-beam of a flashlight sweeps toward the alley…
I slam my seat backward, too fast, hitting with a jolt, which rouses Rin.
“Hmm?” she mumbles.
“Ssshh,” I hiss. “Someone’s at the end of the alley, looking.”
She freezes.
Voices echo in the alley, a door opens, closes; another opens and closes. Feet clunk on pavement.
I hear a rustling, a soft clink of metal—Corinna is working the M-16 onto her lap, butt up over her shoulder, barrel on her thigh, ready to whip up and fire. I grip the handle of the pistol until my knuckles ache. Arabic, two voices in low cross-chatter, not quite whispering, but not full volume either.
I hear a slide racking.
My heart thuds, hammers. Loud in my ears.
The flashlight beam hits the hood, the inside of the roof. Across the top of the cabin where the seats would be.
Each second stretches like taffy, oozing, twisting. I hear their footsteps, the echoes, their voices.
I thumb the safety to make sure it’s off. Pull back the hammer slowly—theclickis deafening.
The voices and the footsteps halt.
I’m not breathing, and I’m certain Rin isn’t either.
A dozen questions ricochet through my head. But none of them matter, not in this moment.
I hear scuffing, as of someone inexpertly attempting to tiptoe.
