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We edge out of the darkness, back onto the glimmering path of light. John finishes his stroke and sets the oars a moment while he reaches behind him, fetching the source of the light. When he turns back, he’s cradling a hand in both of his. It’s been cut off just below the wrist, a bit of bone protruding from the desiccated flesh. The fingers cup a candle, melted almost all the way down, fat globs of wax spilling over the palm. He puffs his cheeks to blow it out and wraps the whole thing tenderly in a cloth he pulls from inside his jacket. Then he puts the bundle inside a wooden box at his feet and taps the lid as if to assure himself it’s secure.
“What—” I say, but realize before I ask the question there’s really no answer that will make it make sense.
“There are two ways to survive the road. One of them is following the rules, the other is learning how to break them in just the right way,” he says. “Not much left of that trick, and the cost of its acquisition was dear, but as it’s saved one life, at least, I’ll call it a worthy price.”
In the lighthouse’s beam, I can see him more clearly. He’s white, with a russet beard streaked with gray and a broad, weathered face. His clothes are as rumpled as his hat and old-fashioned, though I don’t know enough to say whether the fashion is eighty years out of date or a hundred and eighty. One of his eyelids droops, and the cheek on that side is scored with deep scars.
“I’m Sara,” I say.
“Oh, that I know,” he replies. “And your next question’s going to be about your friends, who will have fetched up to shore by now, as soon we shall in turn. We’ve been waiting for you awhile now. There was some doubt as to whether you’d make it.”
“We?”
He doesn’t answer. The shore is in view, gleaming gray at the end of the light. The others’ boat is there, leaning drunkenly against the shore, pulling free and wandering back with every breaking swell. There’s no sign of them. I lick my lips, taste salt.
“They’re just fine,” he tells me. “You’ve come through the worst of it, now. For this stretch, at least.”
Then there is only the slap of the water against the hull, and then the scrape of sand as he drives us all the way up onto the shore. He steps out and grabs hold of the prow, hauling it upanother foot before holding out his hand to steady me. I shiver, a cold breeze cutting right through my wet clothing, and he settles his rough woolen coat around my shoulders. It helps a little. I chatter out a thank-you, but he only smiles and ducks back to the boat to fetch his box.
With the box, and the hand inside it, tucked under his arm, he heads up the beach and the slope beyond, leaving me to follow.
I’ve got no particular reason to trust him, other than the fact that he just saved my life, but I also have no other options and no direction to go but straight up the last sliver of light to the next section of road.
Sand gives way to scrub, which gives way to the road, and the path of light ends. John pauses, pats his sides, and then turns back to me. “Ah. In the pocket there, if you please,” he says, pointing to the coat hanging limply around my shoulders.
I get at the pocket awkwardly and find a flashlight inside. There’s tape over the bottom, and initials—M. N.—in Sharpie. I decide not to wonder about who it belonged to. I hand it up to him and he uses it to light our path. We walk another few hundred yards through shallow hills, trudging up and down, which at least warms me.
Up ahead, a puddle of light spills over the road. A campfire. And the figures around it—
“There are your people,” John says. “Go on, then. They’ll be eager to see you, but these old bones don’t move so fast anymore. Take the light, then, I don’t need it.”
I accept the flashlight from him wordlessly—because I can’t manage words. They’re alive, all of them.I’malive, a fact that finally sinks in as I lope along stiffly, my bare feet slapping the stones. I run as fast as I can and it isn’t fast enough. I resent every second it takes me to cross the distance to them.
Mel spots me first and lets out a whoop, running to meet me. I slow down, but she still slams into me and wraps her arms around my sodden shoulders.
“Sara! Oh my God, she wasn’t lying. You’re okay? You’re you?”
“I’m me,” I say, and then, before I can think better of it, I kiss her.
The kiss tastes of ocean water, and a damp strand of hair gets stuck between our lips, but I don’t care. I don’t care who’s watching, either, only that Mel is there and she’s kissing me back and there’s one thing, at least, that this road can’t take from me.
When we break away, she bites her lip, flushed. Mel, shy—that’s new. “Turns out waiting is a terrible idea,” I say, and she laughs. And then I look past her, and see Becca, cheeks streaked with tears that haven’t yet had the chance to dry. Mel follows my gaze and steps back. Gives Becca room to come forward.
Becca draws in close. She puts her hands to either side of my face and leans her brow against mine. “Don’t you dare do that again,” she whispers. “You’re my little sister. I’m supposed to be looking after you.”
“I’m older than you now, remember?” I say. “Also taller.” I hug her, and this time her answering embrace is quick and sure.
“Barely.” She steps back and grins, relief pouring into herexpression. Then she clears her throat—what she always does when she’s trying not to cry. My gaze skirts past her, and for the first time I notice that they weren’t alone by the fire.
A girl stands backlit, wearing a white dress, a blue ribbon around her waist. Her hair is red brown, and falls in loose curls to the middle of her back.
“That’s—” I begin.
“Lucy,” Becca says. “We found her.”
“More like she found us,” Anthony says. He’s a few steps back, close enough to the fire that the orange of its light is still stronger than my flashlight. “She and that other guy. We were going off track, I guess, and then suddenly they were there with this light. He just reached out and yanked our boat back on track and went with us the last couple strokes, out of the dark. Lucy asked where you were. She knew your name. She knew all our names. And when we told her what had happened, she hopped over into our boat and told the guy to go after you.”
A dozen half-formed questions come to the tip of my tongue, but none of them are complete enough to voice. I stare at Lucy, who’s close enough she can probably hear everything we’re saying, but far enough away she isn’t intruding too obviously. She stares back. Then she lifts a hand and waves a little, a fluttering of her fingertips.
