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“Feel free to keep moving,” I reply. “I’d prefer it if you did.” That goes for both of them. Quinn’s unwarranted self-confidence is nearly as annoying as Price’s sense of entitlement. The only smart thing I’ve seen him do yet is steal the German’s canteen.
Henri and I walk into the barn and when he lowers himself into the hay, his whole body seems to sag, his eyes sunken with fatigue. He needs so many things I’m not sure where to start. I turn to Price and Quinn. “Can you see what’s in the house? I need alcohol to clean the wound.”
“Or you need a head start to get away from us,” says Price.
I’m about to reply when Quinn grabs him. “Even I’ve had about enough of your mouth. Come on.”
They leave and I start to pull off Henri’s boots but he reaches for me. “Come here.”
I go to him. “What is it? Are you in pain?”
He tugs me toward him and presses his lips to the top of my head as he pulls me to his chest. “My sweet, insane girl,” he murmurs. “You could have died.”
His eyes close, as if the act of talking is too much for him. I pull away and grab the penicillin from the bag. Henri doesn’t even seem to notice the needle as it enters his skin.
Quinn walks in and throws me a dress. “To bandage the wound,” he says, taking a heavy drink from the bottle in his hand.
“I’ll take the alcohol too,” I tell him, reaching up for it.
He hands it over, nearly emptied. Henri is obviously in pain and the selfish bastard only saved enough for me to clean his wounds, nothing more. “You worthless piece of shit,” I mutter. “You could have left some.”
“Henri, I pictured you with a refined little lady,” Quinn says. “This one has quite the mouth on her.”
Henri gives a quiet laugh, and then flinches. “Yes,” he says, “that was my first impression as well.”
Quinn and Price retreat to the loft and I make Henri lie down on a makeshift bed of hay and the single blanket. Using the dregs of the alcohol, I do my best to clean the wound and dress it with strips of fabric.
“How do you feel?” I whisper.
“Lucky,” he says. “And scared.”
“Scared of what?”
He forces his eyes open and pushes the hair back from my face. “If I die—”
I shake my head. “You’re not going to die. Once the antibiotic kicks in—”
His eyes close. “Sarah,” he says quietly, “you know how this works. If this is when I’m supposed to die, nothing you’re doing will matter. If that happens, swear to me you’ll go with the children and stay gone. A promise you actually keep.”
I curl up beside him and press my nose to his neck. He smells of soap and hay and sweat and the combination reminds me of a thousand other times I spent with him in the barn. “I swear.”
And this time I mean it. Except if he dies, I’m not sure how I will possibly go on.
* * *
The next time my eyes open, it’s daylight, and our bag is gone. So are Quinn and Price.
They have everything we need aside from my knife—our food, Henri’s penicillin, our money. Everything.
They fucked with the wrong girl.
“What is it?” asks Henri, groggy, struggling to open his eyes. Do I dare leave him here while I go back in time to take care of this? What if he’s found while I’m gone? I flinch at the idea, but then again, I can’t defend him here without that bag.
“Nothing,” I reply. “I have to go take care of something.”
Just then I hear whistling. Obnoxious, brash whistling. Quinn walks into the barn and sets the bag down beside me
“Where did you go?” I ask.
