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“We had it covered,” Dylan says. We all stand there for a minute, an awkward little group. I wish Meredith would give me some sign she wants me to interfere, but she keeps her face averted, making eye contact with no one.
“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Bishop says, voice flat.
“You too,” Dylan says, although he seems annoyed all over again that Bishop didn’t remember him. I hope Meredith doesn’t suffer for that, too.
Bishop and I walk in silence to the north side of town, where the main road peters out into gravel. The sun is already high in the sky and sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Only June and already so humid it’s like breathing through a wet washcloth. I imagine this is the closest you can get to drowning on dry land.
Bishop veers off the gravel road and into the thick stand of trees. I try not to think about ticks as we crash through the brush. I’m about to complain when a narrow path opens up in front of us. The trees overhead bring some welcome relief from the sun. I keep waiting for Bishop to bring up Meredith, but he doesn’t. So I do.
“He did that to her,” I say to Bishop’s back.
He doesn’t stop or turn around. “I know. ”
His lack of reaction only fuels my irritation. “That’s the kind of stuff I was talking about when I said I didn’t like arranged marriages. He thinks he owns her. ”
“That can happen whether the marriage is arranged or not. It depends more on whether the guy’s a piece of shit than on how they ended up married. ”
I allow myself a quick grin only because he can’t see me. “Still, somebody needs to do something to help her. Because your father’s laws aren’t going to cut it. ” Under the law, as it stands, there is no easy path to divorce. A marriage can only be dissolved if both parties sign a joint petition and President Lattimer approves it, something I’ve only ever heard rumors of happening. And, even then, only when the parties involved were personal friends of President Lattimer’s. “Something tells me Dylan’s not going to agree to sign away his marriage. ” The path is sloping upward and I stop to catch my breath. “He’s finally got his very own punching bag, one that makes him dinner and has sex with him, too. He’s not going to be in any hurry to give her up. ”
Bishop stops just ahead of me. He slides the backpack off his back and digs inside. “Can we not do this right now?” he asks. He hands me the water jug.
“Do what?”
“Argue. ”
I take a gulp of water, backhanding the excess that dribbles down my chin. “We’re not fighting, according to you,” I point out. “No silent treatment. ”
Bishop gives me a closed-mouth smile and shakes his head, holding out his hand for the jug. “At this point, I’d consider the silent treatment a blessing. ”
I slap the jug into his palm. He tilts it to his mouth and takes a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the tanned column of his neck. There’s a sheen of sweat on his skin, darkening the neck of his T-shirt. I jerk my eyes away.
He gives the jug back to me to carry and takes off again. I sigh and hike after him, waving my hand through a small army of gnats that circle my head. “How much farther?”
“Not far,” he says. He’s not even slightly out of breath.
“Are you taking me to some stupid clubhouse where you hang out with your friends? Will I have to learn the super-secret handshake to get inside?”
He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t have friends. I’m the president’s son, remember? I have sycophants. ”
“Wow,” I say. “Fancy word. ”
He glances at me over his shoulder but doesn’t slow his pace. “Don’t even pretend that you don’t know what it means. Anyone who reads Anna Karenina as a bedtime story is familiar with fancy words. ”
Okay, he’s got me there. I wonder if he’s serious about not having friends. Since we’ve been married I haven’t met any. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t mind me saying exactly what I think; maybe no one has ever done that with him before. I suppose being a leader’s child doesn’t lend itself to genuine friendships. It certainly never has for me.
After ten more minutes of hiking, I begin to hear the sounds of water to our right. I try to visualize the town map in my head, but I’m not that great with directions. “We’re near the fence, aren’t we?” I say. I’ve rarely been close to the fence in my life.
“Yes,” Bishop says, unconcerned. “But we’re not going there. ”
The tightness in my shoulders relaxes at his words. I don’t know why the very thought of the fence makes me anxious. It’s not as if it’s a living thing that can harm me. But my entire life, safety has been inside that fence, and everything beyond is unknown and unknowable.
“My dad said people used to try and get in, back when Westfall was first founded,” I say.
“That’s what I’ve heard, too,” Bishop says. “Sometimes we would let them in, sometimes not. I think it depended on whether they seemed sick and how much food we had. But nowadays that doesn’t happen very often. ”
“Didn’t some just breach the fence?” I remember my father’s stories about groups coming right over the top when he was a boy, heedless of the razor wire.
“Yeah, but we have the constant patrols now, just to make sure it’s in good shape, that no one’s tunneling underneath it or ripping it apart. ” He glances back at me. “But there’s hardly ever any activity outside the fence these days, at least close by. Only the people we put out, and they rarely try to get back into Westfall. I guess they figure it’s better to take your chances out there than be guaranteed a death sentence in here. ”
