Gone

seemingly fatal wound.
    Lana laid her left hand on the flesh just below the bone on her right arm. The flesh was hot to the touch. It felt puffy beneath the crust of dried blood.
    She closed her eyes and thought, whatever did it, however it happened for Patrick, I want it now for me. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.
    She drifted off then, thinking of home. Of her room. Posters on the walls, a dreamcatcher hanging in front of one window, forgotten stuffed animals in a wicker basket, a closet bursting with clothing, her collection of Asian fans, which everyone thought was weird.
    She wasn’t mad at her parents anymore. She just missed them. She wanted her mother more than anything. And her dad, too. He would know how to save her.
    She dreamed feverish dreams, images that made her gasp and pant and caused her heart to beat like a jackhammer.
    She felt herself floating on a thin crust of land. The land was like the skin of a balloon. Below, an open space full of swirling clouds and sudden jets of flame. And farther down still, a monster, something out of her childhood, the monster that had often startled her from sleep.
    It was chiseled of living stone, a rough, slow-moving, cunning beast with burning black eyes.
    And within that terrible beast, a heart. Only this heart glowed green, not red. And this heart was like an egg, cracked open so that brilliant, painful light escaped.
    She woke with a start from the sound of her own cry.
    She sat up, as she always did when waking from a nightmare in her own bed.
    She sat up.
    The pain was terrible. Her head pounded, her back, her…She stared at her right arm.
    For a while she forgot to breathe. Forgot even the pain in her head and back and leg. Forgot them all. Because the pain in her arm was gone.
    Her arm was straight. From elbow to wrist it formed a straight line again.
    The gangrene was gone as well. The smell of death was gone.
    Her arm was still crusted in dried blood but it was nothing, nothing at all compared with what had been there, nothing like what it had been.
    Trembling, she lifted her right arm.
    It moved.
    Slowly she clenched her right fist.
    The fingers came together.
    It was not possible. It was not possible. What she was seeing could not be.
    But pain didn’t lie. And the searing pain in her arm was now no more than a dull throb.
    Lana placed her left hand on her broken leg.
    It wasn’t quick. It took a long time and she was terribly weak from thirst and hunger. But she kept her hand there until, an hour later, she did what she had feared she would never do again: Lana Arwen Lazar stood up.
    Two vultures sat perched atop the overturned pickup truck.
    Lana said, “Guess you waited for nothing.”

ELEVEN
    273 HOURS , 39 MINUTES
    SAM, QUINN, EDILIO , and Astrid moved off on foot, insults and laughter following them.
    “Quinn, Edilio, are you guys okay?” Astrid asked.
    “Aside from the big bruise I’ll probably have in the middle of my back?” Quinn answered. “Sure. Aside from the fact that I got pounded on for no reason, I’m perfect. Great plan, brah. Worked out well. We gave away the golf cart, and we got beat up and humiliated.”
    Sam bit back a desire to yell at his friend. Quinn wasn’t wrong. Sam had voted to ignore the roadblock, and they had paid a price.
    Howard’s words stung. It was like the little worm had peeled back his skin and shown the world what Sam was really like. Not about thinking he was too good for everyone, that was wrong, but about him not wanting to step up. Sam had his reasons, but right now they didn’t matter as much as the burning feeling that he was shamed in front of his friends.
    “I’ll be fine, no big thing,” Edilio said to Astrid. “If I keep walking, it’ll go away.”
    “Oh yeah, great, be a big man, Edilio.” Quinn sneered. “Maybe you enjoy getting pounded on. Me, no. I do not enjoy getting pounded on. And now we’re supposed to walk all the way to the power plant? Why, so we can look for some little kid who probably doesn’t even know he’s missing?”
    Again Sam resisted the surge of anger. As mildly as he could he said, “Brother, nobody is making you come.”
    “You saying I shouldn’t?” Quinn took two quick steps and grabbed Sam’s shoulder. “You saying you want me to leave, brah?”
    “No, man. You’re my best friend.”
    “Your only friend.”
    “Yeah. That’s right,” Sam admitted.
    “All I’m saying is, who died and made you king?” Quinn asked.