I hear the groan of hinges, and the smell hits me immediately, of metal and rust and organic matter that stingsmy nostrils. He drops me onto a bed of garbage bags. Something sharp digs into my back, and it takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to arch away.
Seconds later, Nico lands on top of me, partially across my upper thighs. I grit my teeth hard.
The dumpster lid crashes closed. A car door slams. An engine turns over.
I don’t bother counting to make sure he’s gone. I’m scared he’ll be standing there waiting again, no matter how long I count. I don’t want to forget the long number bouncing around in my head, anyway. The silence creeps on, broken only by the distant rumble of traffic.
I rip the duct tape off my mouth. My skin burns.
“Nico?” I croak out.
Nothing.
My fingers fumble across his face until I find his nose. I press my palm just below his nostrils and wait, seconds ticking by before I feel the faintest whisper of air against my skin.
I drop my head against the column of his throat, giving myself just one second to feel relief before pulling myself together. Alive doesn’t mean okay.
He must have passed out from blood loss. Exhaustion. Infection. I could do that, too. Everything feels far away and numb. The idea of moving again seems impossible. All I want to do is close my eyes and let the cold creep in. Let someone else find us. It would be so easy to stay here with him in the dark, our bodies pressed together until we both fade out like the end of a song.
A sob gurgles out of me as my feet find the bottom of the dumpster. I drag myself out from under him. Nico slides off me with a soft thud.
I fumble until my fingers find the edge of the lid, and I push. It barely budges.
Could the Game Master still be out there, waiting for the team to find us so he can watch? If he is, and he sees me climb out of the dumpster… I push down hard on the thought.
Nico could die if I wait for someone to find us. I don’t have a choice.
I grit my teeth and scream, pushing as hard as I can and throwing my shoulder into it. The lid gives way with a groan. Freezing air rushes in, and I stick my head up just far enough to peer out.
We’re in some kind of industrial park, at the edge of a parking lot that’s broken up with hulking shapes—machinery parked for the night. A curved driveway leads to a main road, and across it, there’s the glow of a gas station or truck stop.
I climb over the edge of the dumpster, and the lid bangs shut behind me. The second my boots touch gravel, I collapse, making a strained mumbling sound as my knees hit the ground.
The first step nearly drops me. Pain is information. Bite through the bag. Never give up. I call on every single lesson Dad ever had the chance to teach me, every way he showed me how to keep going when everything in me wanted to stop. I beg for the strength I need to make him proud.
The gas station parking lot materializes around me like a mirage. There’s a guy pumping gas into a semi, baseball cap pulled low over his face. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t approach a strange man in an isolated location if you paid me, but nothing about this is normal.
Baseball Cap glances up, and I watch his expression shift from bored to concerned to borderline terrified in three seconds. “Jesus Christ, girl, are you okay?”
“Can I use your phone?” I rasp, and I want to cry at how much the words hurt. “To call 911.”
He holds out a flip phone, tensing so much he probably thinks I’ll sprout fangs and go for his jugular.
I want to hug him. Or fall to my knees and kiss his boots, but I take the phone with hands that shake so much I almost drop it. I memorized Donny’s number before going into the field, but right now my brain feels like someone put it in a blender with some rusty nails. Is his area code 732 or 723? What if nobody is watching his phone?
Pick up pick up pick up, please, for the love of all that’s holy just?—
“Hello?”
Zoey’s voice is a golden light coming through the other end of the phone. I’m overwhelmed with emotion, but I swallow it back. I keep my eyes on Baseball Cap as I talk. “I got lost in the woods for four days, and I need someone to get me.”
“Eden?” I hear a clatter on the other end of the line. “What are you talking about? Where are you?”
I squint at the neon sign buzzing overhead, trying to decode the letters through vision that keeps going in and out of focus. “Pete’s Gas… route…” The numbers blur together like I’m trying to read underwater.
There’s the sound of frantic typing before she tells me I’m ten minutes from the house. Only ten minutes. That asshole dumped us in our own backyard. Probably because he wanted thetroupeto find our bodies.
I’m about to hang up so Baseball Cap can have his phone back when I remember something else.
