Foreverland Is Dead

“are useless. Stay in the bed and die there.”
    He punches the door open. Miranda flees behind him.
    There’s a scuffle in the back. Sid drags Roc by the arm, her coat open, bootlaces whipping around her feet. She yanks her arm out of his grasp. His reaction betrays his slack posture: a lightning-quick slap to the nose. He twists her arm behind her back, bending the wrist until her fingers tickle the back of her head.
    He marches her through the doorway, slamming it shut. Roc’s curses are heard through the closed door.
    The girls get dressed. Cyn is just getting the feeling back in her fingers.
    “We’ll bring you something to eat,” Jen whispers.
    “Where are you going?” Cyn asks.
    “He’s got us searching for the gate,” Kat sneers, not bothering to whisper.
    Cyn throws the blanket off, squirms to move her legs. “I’ll come with—”
    “Stop her,” Kat says. “He’ll freak out. Besides, you won’t make it to the door, not on those rotten ass feet. Last thing we need to do is dig a hole for your body.”
    Mad inserts pills in Cyn’s mouth. “Here’s two more,”—she pushes pills into her palm—“and take them if we don’t come back.”
    “We’ll be back,” Jen says, wrapping her face in a scarf.
    They leave Cyn with the silence and a medicinal haze.
    Then the gray.

44

    Miranda stays outside, where the air is brisk and renewing. The cold washes away feelings of heavy dread. She imagines she’s a filter, the pores plugged with dust and grit and decay.
    The air blows it out. Makes her new again.
    She opens the front door where the air is dry and warm and unwholesome. Somehow she dies a little every time she goes inside.
    Mr. Williams stands at the window, a cup in hand. The smell of coffee mingles with the stagnant odor of the brick house. Miranda stomps the snow off of her boots, steps past a fully loaded backpack. He holds out his arm, beckoning. She pretends not to notice, unzipping her coat.
    “Come,” he says, wiggling his fingers.
    She’s frozen in place again. He knows she heard him. She’s looking right at him.
    It’s easier to just go to him. He’s old.
    Miranda comes within reach. He pulls her against his body, squeezing tightly. Perfume emanates from his wrist.
    Kat, Mad, and Jen exit from the outside kitchen door, begin their trek through the woods out back. Roc and Sid exit the front door, walking west. Together. Even though Miranda never lets the fob out of her grip, she’s relieved Sid is staying near her.
    And if he causes her pain, she enjoys that.
    “Don’t worry.” He pulls her tighter. “We’ll find the gate.”
    “Is it true?”
    “Of course, it’s out there.”
    “No, I mean about Patricia. Will she die?”
    His grip stiffens. He pulls a sip from the cup, smacking his lips and letting go of Miranda. He pulls a sheet of paper from his back pocket, unfolding it.
    Miranda moves away, not wanting to be near him if she doesn’t have to. She goes to the rack next to the door, pulls the coat off her shoulder—
    “No.”
    Mr. Williams holds the paper out while continuing to look out the window. Miranda reluctantly takes it. The letter N is at the top. There’s a small square drawn in the middle labeled “camp” . Five arrows point out from it in different directions.
    Miranda’s name is penciled over one of them.
    “You go east,” he says. “You go until the sun is high and then return. Write down everything you see.”
    He sips the coffee.
    “You want me to go out?”
    “You’re young and able, darling. In this body, I wouldn’t make it past the meadow. You can walk all day.”
    She stares at the paper. It starts quivering.
    “We all have to pitch in, Miranda.”
    He looks over his shoulder. She still hasn’t moved. He puts the cup on the windowsill, begins to slowly zip her coat up.
    “There isn’t much time.”
    He tucks her scarf around her neck, sliding his hands over her shoulders, pulls the hood over her head and ties it below her chin.
    “I’ve prepared a pack for you with food and water.”
    He puts his hand on her cheeks, a slight smile. He reaches out with the other hand—
    Miranda breaks the ice in her knees, jerks away.
    She pulls open the door and slams it behind her. She stomps through the snow, leaving the food and water, keeping her face in the wind, hoping it will shear away the smell of perfume.

45

    A gentle hand wakes Cyn.
    Her eyes, slightly crusted, open with effort. Mad is there, her face scratched with red