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The kid’s eyes light up with excitement when I steer the boat into the deep waters and fire up the engine. With his chin-length tangled hair blowing in the wind, he looks like a baby bird peeking out of a nest, his head too small over the adult-size life jacket.
There’s no fear in his eyes that study me openly, stuffing his mouth with chips that Slate must’ve gotten to bribe him.
“You, like, the big boss or somethin’?” he asks, squinting at me in the sun and slightly sliding back and forth on the bench as I steer the boat east. His speech is awful—those swollen words, the street lingo.
I nod and throttle down so he is more comfortable.
“And the other guy? Who talk’ to me a week ago? Inked to here.” He raises a hand to his neck.
Droga.
“My friend,” I say. I wish we still were.
He turns and studies the island, wide-eyed, forgetting the chips for the next half an hour. His world has just expanded tenfold. He’s probably never left Port Mrei before.
I slow down as we round the island, approaching the Eastside, then throttle down.
The boat goes slow, but my heart pumps like crazy as I veer among the rocks underwater—I’ve learned the way to get to the beach by heart, studying the cameras for the last two years.
There are people on the beach. They stop, shielding their eyes as they squint at my boat. Someone starts running toward the village.
My heartbeat spikes even higher, thudding in my head.
I idle the boat toward the broken pier and kill the engine but don’t move.
The kid looks up at me. “Wha’ we waiting for?”
I scan the beach, recognizing the figures against the jungle in the background—Zach, Ty, Owen, Ya-Ya. They don’t move as if waiting for me to draw an AK-47.
“For the green light,” I say, then realize that the kid doesn’t know what that means.
Did he ever watch TV before the Change?
It’s crazy to think that children are growing up not knowing what it was like before. The normal.
More people walk out onto the beach, and then I seethem, Droga and Callie, walking toward the water.
Callie stays behind while Droga’s smiling gaze is on Sonny Little as he approaches the docks.
“Hey, little fella,” he shouts cheerfully before he even reaches the boat, and the kid waves his hand so furiously that his entire body shakes, a grin on his face.
Droga is barefoot and only in his board shorts. It’s the most undressed I’ve seen him since the accident. I hold my breath—the amount of tattooed skin is overwhelming, from his ankles up to his neck.
They cover burn scars.
Fuck…
That awful scream that pierces the air…
His figure moving like a string puppet against the bright orange of the bonfire…
Shouts…
Cries…
The frantic lights of the ambulance…
I can only imagine the pain of having tattoos done over scars.
