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"Go back. Yes. I'm sorry."
Wit reached out to the nearest wall. Lifting his arm took more energy than he thought he had. He turned his body. He was so hot. So very hot. He had lost control of his bowels, he realized. Thank God for his suit.
"Sir, you need to hurry."
"Yes ... I'm moving.
He pulled himself forward, using a pipe as a handhold. One hand over each other. It surprised him that he still had hands. It felt as if they had burned off. It felt as if everything had burned off, as if he were floating through flames.
As if ...
He was sitting too close to the fire. He would melt the bottom of his sneakers if he wasn't careful. The smoke was thick and kept blowing in his face. Lana Taymore was beside him--lithe and freckled and wearing flip-flops. Her legs were longer than his, it seemed.
He had told his parents he was sleeping over at Harry Westover's house. That's what all the guys had told their parents: there was a sleepover at Harry Westover's house.
Some people were drinking. Wit had no idea how they had gotten the beer. Curt Woback was playing a guitar on the other side of the fire, murdering a folk song. Someone else was trying to sing along, but she didn't know all the words.
Smoke billowed into Wit's eyes again, and he fanned it away.
"Smoke follows lovers," someone said. "Smoke follows lovers."
They meant him and Lana, Wit realized. Which was stupid. She was a junior. She didn't know he existed.
"You're so immature," Lana said. She tapped Wit on the arm. "Come on. Let's leave the children. Help me get some firewood."
He got to his feet.
"Uh oh," Curt said. "They're off to the bushes. Watch yourself, O'Toole. She's got smoke fever."
They started chanting. "Smoke fever. Smoke fever. Smoke fever."
Wit followed Lana into the woods, his cheeks flushed. He hadn't brought a flashlight. He couldn't see a thing. Thin branches snagged at his face. He tripped on a stick. He bent down and picked it up. His eyes were slowly adjusting. There were other sticks nearby. He picked those up too and added them to his arms.
Lana was ahead of him. She wasn't picking up anything. "Hurry up, slowpoke."
He followed her. There was a path. He could barely make it out in the dark. They reached a pond. She walked out onto the wooden pier. He looked around. The trees were dark on all sides. He was still holding the sticks. He joined her at the end of the pier. She pulled her T-shirt off over her head in one fluid movement. She was wearing a black lacy bra underneath.
She looked at him funny. "What? You don't know how to swim?"
"Captain. You're not responding, sir."
Victor's voice again.
"I'm here," said Wit. "I'm awake."
"You've arrived, sir. You're at the helm."
Wit looked around. It was true. The helm was there before him. The hatch was open. There were the controls. There were the dead Formics. He pushed his way inside. The wheel was to his left. He reached it. Somehow he lifted his hands to it, gripped it.
"You can do this," said Victor. "Counterclockwise. As far as it will g
o."
It took a moment for Wit to remember what that meant. A clock. He knew what a clock was. The hands moved one way. "Counter" meant the other way. Counterclockwise. He pulled the wheel but it wouldn't budge. He tried again but nothing happened. Maybe when he was stronger he could have done this. But not now. He was too hot, too weak and empty. He felt so drained even breathing was difficult.
He hawked up another glob of blood and spat it out. It floated there in his helmet.
"It's ... not moving."
