Prodigy

weakness of her voice worries me more than anything. I climb into the bed, lie beside her on top of the blankets, and pull her to me. June smiles a little, then closes her eyes. The feel of her body’s curves against mine sends warmth coursing through me. I’ve never thought of describing her beauty as delicate, because
delicate
just isn’t a word that fits June . . . but here, now that she’s sick, I realize just how fragile she can be. Pink cheeks. Small, soft lips against large, closed eyes fringed with the curve of dark lashes. I don’t like seeing her this delicate. The heat of our argument lingers in the back of my mind, but for now I need to forget about it. Fighting will only slow us down. We’ll deal with the problems between us later.
    Slowly, we both doze off.
    * * *
    Something jerks me out of my sleep. A beeping sound. I listen to it for a while, trying to pinpoint its location through my grogginess, and then crawl out of bed without waking June. Before leaving the room, I lean over to touch her forehead again. Still no better. Sweat beads on her brow, so her fever must’ve broken at least once, but she’s as warm as ever.
    When I follow the beeping sound out into the kitchen, I see a tiny beacon blinking above the door that we’d come into the shelter from. Words flash below it in bright, menacing red.
    APPROACHING—400 FT
    A cold fear seizes me. Someone must be coming down the tunnel toward the shelter—Patriots, maybe, or Republic soldiers. Can’t decide which would be worse. I whirl on my heels and hurry to where I’d stacked our burlap sacks of food and water, then empty some cans out of one of them. When the bag’s light enough, I pull my arms through both sack strings like it’s a backpack and then rush to June’s bedside. She stirs with a soft moan.
    “Hey,” I whisper, trying to sound calm and reassuring. I bend down and stroke her hair. “It’s time to go. Come here.” I push the blankets aside, keeping one to wrap around her, pull her boots onto her feet, and hoist her into my arms. She struggles for a moment as if she thinks she’s falling, but I just hang on tighter. “Easy,” I murmur against her hair. “I’ve got you.”
    She settles into my embrace, half-conscious.
    We leave the shelter and head back into the darkness of the tunnel, my boots splashing through puddles and mud. June’s breath is shallow and quick, hot with fever. Behind us, the alarm grows quieter until we round several bends, then it fades to a soft hum. I half expect to hear footsteps coming after us, but soon the hum of the alarm fades away too, and we’re left to travel in silence. To me, it feels like hours have passed—although June mutters that “it’s been forty-two minutes and thirty-three seconds.” We trudge on.
    This stretch of tunnel is much longer than the first, and dimly lit with the occasional flickering fixture. At some point I finally stop and slump down in a dry section, sipping on water and canned soup (at least, I think it’s soup—I can’t see much in this darkness so I just pop the lid off the first tin I grab). June’s shivering again, which is no surprise. It’s cold down here, cold enough for me to see the faint clouds of my breath. I wrap the blanket tighter around June, check her forehead one more time, and then try to feed her some soup. She refuses it.
    “I’m not hungry,” she mutters. When she shifts her head against my chest, I feel the heat of her brow through my shirt.
    I squeeze her hand. My arms are so numb that even this seems difficult. “Fine. But you’re going to have some water, okay?”
    “Fine.” June huddles closer to me and rests her head in my lap. I wish I could figure out a way to keep her warm. “Are they still following us?”
    I squint down into the black depths we came from. “No,” I lie. “We lost them a long time ago. Just relax and don’t worry, but try to stay awake.”
    June nods. She fiddles with something on her hand, and when I look closer, I realize it’s the paper clip ring. She rubs it as if it can give her strength. “Help me out. Tell me a story.” Her eyes are half-closed now, even though I can tell she’s struggling to keep them open. She’s speaking so softly that I have to lean over her mouth to hear it.
    “What kind of story?” I reply, determined to keep her from fading into unconsciousness.
    “I don’t know.” June tilts her head slightly to face me. After a pause, she says sleepily, “Tell