start loading the extra apples that Mrs. Pattinson has allotted into the back and then climb onto the bench. Blackthorn snorts in disapproval and stamps his foot. But Zen is quick to put him at ease, as he does everyone who seems to distrust me. He walks up to him, pats him gently on the face, and whispers in his ear, “Don’t worry, old man. She’s not that bad.”
I let out a huff. “Well, thanks.”
Zen smiles, grabs the reins, and hops up to sit beside me. He gives Blackthorn the signal to go and suddenly we’re off, trudging through the tall grass on the outskirts of the property, until we reach the dirt road that will take us into town.
I turn and watch the small farmhouse, where we’ve spent the past six months of our lives, get smaller and smaller behind us. Although I know it’s only my imagination, through the clip clop of Blackthorn’s hooves on the ground, the rumble of the wheels beneath us, and the hiss of the wind whizzing past my ears, I swear I hear it whispering goodbye.
9
STORMS
Throughout the hour-long drive, I steal quick glances at Zen from the corner of my eye, taking note of his slouched posture, sagging cheeks, and general air of fatigue. I ask him repeatedly how he’s feeling and every time he answers, quite snappishly, that he’s fine.
But he certainly doesn’t look fine. Every few minutes he has to cough and he’s been consistently wiping perspiration from his brow even though the weather is actually quite cool today.
I glance up at the gray sky and wonder when it will start raining. I hope it’s not while we’re out. I’m certainly no expert in illnesses but I have a feeling being outside in the rain isn’t the best thing for someone who looks as awful as Zen does.
When we arrive in the city, Zen steers the cart into the marketplace and pulls Blackthorn to a halt. I sit paralyzed in my seat. Trying to take in the chaotic scene that is playing out in front of me.
I’m starting to feel like I left my stomach back on the farm.
Zen seems oblivious to my reaction. He’s too busy marveling. Mumbling something about how it looks exactly like it does in the movies. I don’t even know what a movie is so I don’t share his admiration. All I feel is sick. And a burning desire to turn around and sprint as fast as my genetically enhanced legs can carry me back down the road that brought us here. At top speed, I could probably be back on the farm in less than ten minutes.
I’m not sure what I expected to see. The only other towns or cities I’ve been to are Wells Creek and Los Angeles. But this city is nothing like either of those. Instead of stores and buildings, there are hundreds of little stalls set up along the perimeter of the square. Each one selling something different. Like meat, cloth, vegetables, bread, grain, and live animals in wooden cages. People are milling about, calling out orders, and haggling over prices. One woman walks past us pulling a rope attached to a goat, while another passes in the other direction holding a dead chicken by its feet. I assume it was recently alive due to the fact that it still has its feathers and its eyes are wide open, revealing the same terrified look I saw on the faces of the bodies floating in the ocean with me after the plane crash.
There are no markings on the ground or signs on poles to direct traffic. But somehow the varieties of different-sized wheeled contraptions pulled by horses and oxen manage to weave effortlessly around one another, as though they can read the oncoming drivers’ thoughts.
Zen hops down from the cart, taking a moment to steady himself before starting to unload the produce from the back, stacking the crates of apples and pears. I can tell he’s struggling and I quickly jump down and walk around to help him.
As I work, I can’t help but wince at the foul smell in the air. It’s much worse than the odor in the Pattinsons’ barn when the pig sty is due to be cleaned. I scrunch up my nose, lean in
I let out a huff. “Well, thanks.”
Zen smiles, grabs the reins, and hops up to sit beside me. He gives Blackthorn the signal to go and suddenly we’re off, trudging through the tall grass on the outskirts of the property, until we reach the dirt road that will take us into town.
I turn and watch the small farmhouse, where we’ve spent the past six months of our lives, get smaller and smaller behind us. Although I know it’s only my imagination, through the clip clop of Blackthorn’s hooves on the ground, the rumble of the wheels beneath us, and the hiss of the wind whizzing past my ears, I swear I hear it whispering goodbye.
9
STORMS
Throughout the hour-long drive, I steal quick glances at Zen from the corner of my eye, taking note of his slouched posture, sagging cheeks, and general air of fatigue. I ask him repeatedly how he’s feeling and every time he answers, quite snappishly, that he’s fine.
But he certainly doesn’t look fine. Every few minutes he has to cough and he’s been consistently wiping perspiration from his brow even though the weather is actually quite cool today.
I glance up at the gray sky and wonder when it will start raining. I hope it’s not while we’re out. I’m certainly no expert in illnesses but I have a feeling being outside in the rain isn’t the best thing for someone who looks as awful as Zen does.
When we arrive in the city, Zen steers the cart into the marketplace and pulls Blackthorn to a halt. I sit paralyzed in my seat. Trying to take in the chaotic scene that is playing out in front of me.
I’m starting to feel like I left my stomach back on the farm.
Zen seems oblivious to my reaction. He’s too busy marveling. Mumbling something about how it looks exactly like it does in the movies. I don’t even know what a movie is so I don’t share his admiration. All I feel is sick. And a burning desire to turn around and sprint as fast as my genetically enhanced legs can carry me back down the road that brought us here. At top speed, I could probably be back on the farm in less than ten minutes.
I’m not sure what I expected to see. The only other towns or cities I’ve been to are Wells Creek and Los Angeles. But this city is nothing like either of those. Instead of stores and buildings, there are hundreds of little stalls set up along the perimeter of the square. Each one selling something different. Like meat, cloth, vegetables, bread, grain, and live animals in wooden cages. People are milling about, calling out orders, and haggling over prices. One woman walks past us pulling a rope attached to a goat, while another passes in the other direction holding a dead chicken by its feet. I assume it was recently alive due to the fact that it still has its feathers and its eyes are wide open, revealing the same terrified look I saw on the faces of the bodies floating in the ocean with me after the plane crash.
There are no markings on the ground or signs on poles to direct traffic. But somehow the varieties of different-sized wheeled contraptions pulled by horses and oxen manage to weave effortlessly around one another, as though they can read the oncoming drivers’ thoughts.
Zen hops down from the cart, taking a moment to steady himself before starting to unload the produce from the back, stacking the crates of apples and pears. I can tell he’s struggling and I quickly jump down and walk around to help him.
As I work, I can’t help but wince at the foul smell in the air. It’s much worse than the odor in the Pattinsons’ barn when the pig sty is due to be cleaned. I scrunch up my nose, lean in
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