Where we never wake.
We die on this night.
His fingers in my hair, my palm over his heart. We exhale our final breath, the last to die. The last to ever really live.
In my dreams, we never wake.
But this isn’t really the end.
Because before the sun has even risen, just a shadowy light to the east, I hear Clay stirring awake, slipping from bed.
We didn’t die, as my dreams foretold.
Not yet.
I feel his lips against my cheek. The light outside is watery and pastel, the rain still falling.
“It’s time,” he says.
I turn to see him more clearly.
“We’ve hardly eaten in nearly two weeks. I’m going out to the henhouse, if there’s no eggs, then I have to…”
“No.” I push myself up, arms weak, and when I rest back against the headboard, the room spins around me. “We can wait another day.”
“Nae.” He shakes his head. “We winnae survive if we don’t eat.”
“If we don’t reach land, we’re going to die anyway. Killing the chickens will only get us a few more days.” I blink, trying to keep the room from tilting. “Let them live, please.”
He leans down, kissing me this time on the lips. “Yer too soft for farm life,” he whispers with a smile. “Let’s hope there’s an egg waitin’ for me when I get out there.”
He turns before I can protest further and leaves the room, his footsteps echoing down the stairs.
I sink back into bed, pulling the blankets over my head. I don’t want to think about Clay ending the lives of our chickens—who survived a hurricane, who we caught and brought back to the island, whowithstood the Arctic by living in the cellar. They have been through as much as we have. They deserve a chance at life.
My dreams are dark and drowning, like I’m being pulled under, but I’m awoken by a hand against my shoulder. I jerk awake, eyes flashing up to the ceiling.
Clay is seated beside me, I can feel his shadow as my eyes adjust to the waking world.
“Ellie,” he says, his voice quiet, calm, different somehow. Still, I start to turn away from him, not wanting to hear what he had to do—that we will eat tonight, but it meant the sacrifice of one of the chickens. “Look.”
I hesitate, my eyes going to the window briefly, where rain drips down the glass. But finally I turn, facing him, and his outstretched palm. At first, I can’t tell what he’s holding. It’s too obscure in the dim light of the room. I blink again, and I smell its sweetness before my eyes fully settle on it.
The soft scent of summer fruit, the sultry taste as your teeth break the velvet skin.
A peach.
I sit up, and Clay holds it out to me, forcing it into my cupped hands. Slowly, I bring it to my nose, inhaling deeply. The scent is rich and honeyed. Impossible.
“How?”
He smiles. “There’s more.”
I look to the window, unsure if I’m still in a dream, but he holds out his hand and I take it, letting him lead me down the stairs. I hold the peach against my chest as if it were a rare jewel, the most precious thing I’ve ever possessed. Clay pulls open the front door, then waits for me to step out onto the porch.
My heart beats unevenly, a symptom of hunger, of disbelief.
Rain still dapples the sky, but the sea is gone.
