Foreverland Is Dead

to run as fast as they could. They have to get out of sight, as far away as possible. She’ll figure out the rest once they can’t see the cabins. The horse’s backbone slams into her each time the hooves hit, sending painful waves through her.
    She holds on.
    Closes her eyes.
    They’re in the trees within minutes. The horses work their way between the trunks, ducking beneath the limbs. The slow pace eases the pain, but Cyn doesn’t look up until they’re out of the trees.
    It’s still dark. And she doesn’t know where they are.
    The horses walk the easiest routes, going around rock outcroppings and steep hills. But they don’t stop. Cyn wonders if Mr. Williams will send Sid after them, if he’ll run until he drops from exhaustion.
    The sun breaks the horizon. Cyn gets her bearings, has them turn more to the left, hoping this will put them back on track. They can go in circles all day to find it, if they have to.
    They’re not going back.
    They reach a shallow valley. The horses dig in and scale the steep slope. Cyn hangs on, almost sliding off the back of her horse. They gather on the ridge, the ground gently sloping down the other side. The horses paw at the snow, tossing their heads.
    Snorting.
    The girls slump over. Tired and hungry. Spirits bending.
    Cyn recognizes nothing. It’s just an endless stretch of trees and hills and rocks, all covered in snow. Immoveable mountains in the distance.
    Something flashes further up the ridge.
    She wipes the tears from her eyes. It’s a beam, a mirror, or something reflective.
    “There!”
    The boulder and dead tree are too far to see with any clarity. Cyn taps the horse with her toes, the pain receding in the numbing cold.
    The others follow.

    “You feel that?”
    Cyn holds up her hand. The others trot to a stop. The boulder and tree still fifty yards away.
    “It’s a fence,” Kat shouts.
    “Not a fence, it’s different.”
    Cyn rubs her stomach where the quivering has begun. She felt that last time, thought the same thing, but a fence starts in the neck. This begins somewhere in the core, at the center of her being.
    The horses walk closer. The backpack is still there, tattered and sunbleached. The strip of aluminum rattles in the breeze.
    Kat pulls up next to Cyn and dismounts. The others do, too. Roc stomps to the front, clutching a rusty bedspring. The end is bent outward.
    Mad slides off while Kat and Jen reach up for Cyn. She leans over, falls into their outstretched arms. When her feet touch the ground, fiery sparks lance her dead legs, spraying pins and needles throughout her body.
    She collapses.
    Kat and Jen carry her closer. The vibrations in her stomach increase, beating back the pain, filling her with warmth and goodness. They lie on the ground.
    Together, they stare at the dead tree, its branches worn smooth by harsh weather. Beautiful and ancient.
    “What now?” Roc says.
    “I don’t know,” Cyn says.
    “Start by putting that away.” Kat points at the bedspring.
    “Not until this is over.”
    The horses are restless, wandering over to the nearest trees, nibbling at shoots poking through the snow, lichens on the trunks. The girls stare at each other. Jen hasn’t said a word.
    “Touch it,” Mad says.
    “She already did that,” Kat says. “The backpack is against the rock.”
    “Don’t tell me we wasted our time.” Roc waves the weapon. “And don’t tell me we need the old man for some secret word.”
    “Not the tree.” Cyn takes a few breaths, her chest shrinking. “I didn’t touch the tree.”
    There’s a moment where she doesn’t hear anything, the pain too large to process. She breathes so small. When she opens her eyes, they’re looking at her.
    “Someone,” she says. “Touch it.”
    “You go.” Roc points the bedspring at Kat.
    “You wanted to ride out here, you go.”
    Roc starts at her—
    “I’ll go.” Mad jumps between them. “I’ll touch it.”
    Roc wipes the sweat from her forehead, exposing the skin between the glove and sleeve. Her wrist is ringed with raw flesh where the restraints cut into her.
    “Go, then,” she says.
    The horses look up from the trees, grinding lichen in their mouths. Mad strips the gloves from her hands, tucks them in her pockets.
    The snow is piled on the boulder.
    On the branches.
    And the wind hardly moves as she reaches out. Her hand pauses a moment and then grips the trunk.
    She goes stiff.
    Like electricity coursing through her. The branch is like a live