After the End(64)

I think that Whit got some things wrong. I don’t need a crutch to Read or Conjure. I don’t need something material to link me with the Yara. I am a living being who is close to the Yara—I should be able to access it directly. Myself. And for once, I take my opal necklace off when I sleep. Okay, it was within reaching distance of me on the floor, but I felt it was a step. I was going to be stronger, and that strength would come from me.

The next morning when I awake, Tallie is gone. Breakfast is laid out on the table, with a note next to it saying, “Off to find wheels.” I eat and dress, then wait outside with Poe until we see a red pickup truck pull up to the clearing at the bottom of the mountain in the distance.

I scramble out the door, and though I’m trying to be careful with my ankle, practically run down the side of the mountain. Tallie meets me halfway. She eyes my sack, which has been packed since the previous night, and then my face, red with exertion and drawn with my impatience to get started.

She plants her fists on her hips. “You sure you don’t want to hang out just a few more days?”

“Um, I, uh . . . ,” I start saying before I realize that she’s making fun of me. “I’m one hundred percent sure, even though you’ve been the best host.”

“Then let’s go,” says Tallie, taking my pack from me and swinging it into the back of the truck. “Let’s get you back on your path.”



UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................





48


MILES




THE FIRST NIGHT IT TOOK ME A WHILE TO PITCH the tent. After that effort, along with my exhaustion from walking around all day, I didn’t even mind the hard ground. I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.

Tonight, however, I have the tent up nearly as fast as Juneau did. After that resounding success, I decide to push my luck and attempt building a fire for the first time. Not because it’s cold—it’s a bit chilly, but not enough to merit the fire—I just want to see if I can.

To tell the truth, Juneau made me feel inept about all this outdoors stuff. But in L.A. why would I ever need to build a fire? I’m sure there are a million things that I know how to do that she doesn’t. I mean, she’d never driven a car. Before she stole mine, that is. I’ll bet she’s never used a computer. Although something tells me she’d probably pick that up quickly too.

It’s obvious that she’s smart. I wonder how long it will take her to get used to living in the real world. And I wonder just where it is that her dad and clan are. Although the rest of her story has panned out so far, kidnapping a whole commune seems a bit extreme. Then again, it would be pretty twisted if they had all picked up and left without her.

I build a little fort out of twigs and then add some bigger pieces of wood that I’ve gathered, like I saw Juneau do. And I’m about to try to light the pile when I hear a car coming down the dirt road. I freeze. No one’s come anywhere near my campsite, so far as I know, and I’m afraid some park rangers or police are going to arrest me for staying here since it isn’t an official campground. (I had seen signs for some of those, but they all cost money, and I’m seeing how long I can stretch my last five bucks.)

My first reflex is to hide, but if it’s the cops, they’ll just run my license plate and maybe even call my dad, since it’s his name on the registration. Before the vehicle comes into view, a large black shape flies straight at me, and I duck as it glides within inches of my head.

I spin to discover the Bird—okay, Poe—perched with its head tipped to one side like it finds my startled expression hilarious. And then a red pickup truck pulls up to the end of the dirt road next to my car. I can’t tell who’s inside until they turn the headlights off, and then I see Juneau step out of the passenger side and walk slowly toward me. She’s limping slightly, and the serious expression on her face, combined with the fact that the driver isn’t getting out of the truck, tips me off to the fact that she wants to talk with me alone.

“Welcome to my campsite,” I say, gesturing with pride toward the pitched tent and fire-in-the-making. Juneau doesn’t even look at it. She’s staring directly into my eyes as she walks toward me, and for a second I’m afraid that she’s going to come right up and punch me. But she stops two steps away and stands, hands at her side, chin lifted in that proud way she does that usually precedes her saying something awful.

“I’m not here because I want to be,” she says. “I’m here because I have to be. I need you to keep traveling with me.”