Are you there?

Am I?

My brain is black. I'm groggy. Weak. I try to blink the black away but it stays. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again but everything is still black. Panic takes root in my belly; spreads slowly but surely upward to my chest, attacks my heart, and heats my cheeks. My lungs fight to draw in air. I feel like I’m stuck in the fetal position. I can’t extend my legs. They’re stuck. I can barely move my arms. I close my eyes again. My chin quivers as I fight back tears. My mind unweaves like a thread pulled from a shirt.

Smell is the sense that is most instantly connected with memory. That’s what my psych professor said anyway. I think that’s crap. I think it’s different for everyone. My memory is most certainly triggered by music. I can’t think of one smell I associate with a specific memory but play a song and I can recall a lot.

Finch. Where is Finch? And the guards? Where is my room? Am I near the other girls? Questions run wild through my brain. Stop it, I think. Stop it, Aubry. Breathe. You’re alive. Breathe. I focus on that one task until I am in control of my lungs again. I listen carefully to the sounds around me. Something jars me and I feel almost weightless for a moment.

Five crows in a row, sit on a power line. Seeing them makes me shiver. It means sickness is coming. Maybe even death. At the very least, bad luck. At least that's what my mother always said. She saw five the day before they found my brother Anton's, body. She saw five the morning I brought Nora to the bus station for her summer job too. I try, but I can't come up with any good outcome to seeing five crows in a row. I imagine this is what an out of body experience feels like. My soul feels weak.

The sky is a crimson red.

As if space is bleeding into Earth's atmosphere. But then Nora is here. Smiling at me. I reach out and take her hand. 

"You're a fighter, Aub. You got this," she says. "You're my inquisitive, frolicsome, and clever bestie. Kind and loving, with a smile that lights up a conversation, a whole room even." I feel myself blushing at her words. "I can't live without that, so don't you dare give up."

I always wanted to be like Nora but was never demure like she is. What did she call me once? Capricious? Yes. That was it. I thought she meant I was moody but that wasn't it. She told me I'm an introverted extrovert. I couldn't ever be as dull as her because I enjoyed being social and laughing and being impulsive. She said I did it all with class but still, there was always something I envied about the way Nora carried herself. The graceful and sophisticated aura she gave off always seemed to elude me. I'm too passionate about things. Or at least I feel like I am. Nora never seemed to mind. That was another thing I envied. She loved all of me even though we were nearly polar opposites. I love her too, of course. But definitely felt frustration with her hermit-like tendencies every so often.

But here is she is, holding my hand, loving on me. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Her lips turn down. I try again but … nothing. Why can't I speak? Her hand drops to her side. Leaving mine outstretched, reaching for her still. She takes a step backward. Then another. The blood from the sky slowly engulfs her and I am left open-mouthed, silently screaming.

I evoke, with shut eyes, the optical replica of a face, a phantom in natural colors—Mike. The first time I saw him. He walked in wearing jeans and an Oxford shirt, and I swear my eyes burned with lust. The level of attraction I felt upon first sight was unprecedented. But then Nora warned me about him and Liam warned him about me. But I swear that night, whether it was the magic of my birthday or simply fate, when his lips met mine, I was a goner. I sunk into a lust-laden frenzy that could only be quelled by him. But I wouldn’t give in to him. Not until I was sure I could make him want only me. He had a reputation and I’d never give my heart to a man unless I was sure he would be faithful. I can see long legs extending out of black Nike shorts and expensive running shoes. Everything about him is damp—hair, face, neck, arms. A triangle of sweat stains the front of a Harvard T-shirt. I lick my lips. Mike is the definition of an athletic red-blooded male. He guides me to a sitting position and curls his arm around my shoulders. I smile up at him, thinking of the way he flirts makes my pulse pound, the way we talk late into the night, side by side in his yard while staring up at the sky. The brace of solid muscle, his kindness, is waking up every hormone in my body. I swear I can smell him. I groan.

Why did I never give into him? My stomach churns. Bile rises. I swallow it down. No. I shake him from my thoughts. I should think of Mom, Aimee, Eve, even. Not some playboy tease. But I can’t shake the feeling. I can feel him. It’s as if he’s in my head, in my core, lingering.

Blinding light scalds my eyes. I try to block it. My eyes open slowly. I squint and contort my face at the atrocious and painful daylight. My bottom lip quivers. Blinking rapidly, realization takes root. Fingers dig into my arms. My long nails are sharp and broken but the rest of me is losing ground. I fight to understand. I’m dreaming. Or dying. I can’t be certain which. I’d like to think it’s dreaming. I’d like to hope that dying feels more peaceful than this does.  My heart beats like the steady thrum of windshield wipers in rain storm.

Everything that was, everything that is now, everything that might have been, everything is this moment. The collapse. My rescue. A new beginning for me. I’m saved.

Time elapses. I blink. I see Mike’s face. I blink again, that can’t be right, but it’s him. My eyes widen. I am face to face with Mike. He has me by the biceps. My legs are too weak and shaky to hold my own weight. Silence seems to expand between us.

“Fuck!” he screams.

Everything I thought was wrong.

He releases me. I drop like a rag doll back into the crate. A little howl of pain escapes me.  He’s been the angel from my nightmares the last month and now here he is, here, with me—in the flesh.

My slim fingers grip the edge of the crate and I hoist myself up slowly, wide-eyed, and take everything in. My joints ache from disuse and being tucked in the fetal position. My chest heaves with exertion.

“M-m-ike?” I whisper, “Is that really you?” I stare at him like he’s a ghost. He looks me over carefully. Intently. I wait. Unsure.

“Fuck,” he yells again. It makes me jump. He lunges forward sliding his arms under my pits and scooping me out of the wooden box. He holds me in his lap. I don’t move. Panicking, I bury my face in his chest. I don’t cling to him. I don't do anything. I just remain still as he holds me. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust that this is real and not fabricated in my brain.

“It’s me,” he says. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks and onto his tee-shirt. We sit like this for a long time. He whispers all the right things to me as his fingers gently graze my back, rubbing in a soothing manner as he holds me to him. After the terror subsides, relief sweeps through me. I’ve been rescued. I’m cradled in Mike’s arms, the top of my head being peppered with soft kisses and encouraging words.

“Is this real?” I ask. “Because nothing’s real anymore.” His body goes tight and stiff beneath me. Like he’s stressed out.

His lips touch the top of my head—again. “It’s real, Aub. I’m here. I’m real.” His voice is tight with emotion. Like he’s choked up, like he missed me.

“Are you here to save me?” I ask. He cringes at my words. “I want to go home.” He bangs his head on the plane wall behind him. “Mike?” My voice is so small, not at all the typical boisterous Aubry I’m used to myself sounding like.

“I don’t know,” he says and barks out a raucous laugh. A laugh that doesn’t make sense.

“What?” I look up at him, eyes still watery to find his own wet with emotion. It’s got to be almost ninety degrees in the plane right now because Mike’s sweating but I have a chill that’s got my teeth chattering. He stares at me hard for long moments. A look that full of wonder, joy and dread simultaneously. His eyes dart from my face to my arms, then down to my legs before coming back up to my face. He’s thinking so hard I can practically see the proverbial wheels turning.

“You’re sick. I can’t bring you home yet. I need you to get better first.” His lie immediately gnaws at my gut. I push away from him and scurry to the far side of the plane.

“What the hell?” I whimper. “I want to go home.” He drags a hand through his hair and looks everywhere but me. I grit my teeth and tell myself to be strong, to keep the tears at bay just a moment longer, “I said, I want to go home!”

He draws in a deep breath, holds it, then releases. “Just, calm down, Aub. Let me help you.”

“Help me what?” I shriek. Why is he here? Why I am I with him if it’s not to save me. To bring me home? He can’t be a part of this, can he? There would have been signs before. I would have known somehow. I can’t control my emotions. A sob breaks out, leaving my lungs desperate for air. He lurches forward and grabs my arm. With a yank it’s extended palm up.

“With this,” he says and looks at the inside of my elbow. My eyes follow his and land on … track marks. I pull my arm from him and run my index finger over the faint lines on my skin. How did I get these? Is this from Small Man?

Shaking my head I try to make sense of everything.

“I don’t. I didn’t. They did this to me,” I say. Suddenly demons are begging me to be let out.

They are vigorous and angry. My heart races. I don't care what the consequences are, I have to get home. If I have to kill the Russians I will. I will do whatever necessary to protect my family, friends, and Mike. Murder seems like a small price to pay at this point. My thoughts race, unfiltered and unreliable. I try to stand but anxiety and fatigue rush me. I dig my nails into my scalp and pull at my hair.

“Stop that,” he says pulling at my wrists. He puts my palm on his chest and places his on mine. “Breathe,” he says. “Just keep breathing.” Somewhere in the recesses of my brain I recall him telling me his mother used to do this very trick with him when he was a boy. I stare at him, letting my tears freely drip from my eyes and splat on my thighs for what seems like an eternity. He waits me out. Let’s me have my moment. Staring into his eyes, until my tears dry up, he breathes with me. In and out. Slow and steady.

When I am calm, he draws me against him and holds me like he wants to never let me go and it feels so good. Tears prick my eyes. I do nothing to stop them from spilling over and running down my face. His heart thumps wildly in my ear. It lulls me into a relaxed state. I’m safe. His palm rubs the length of my arm, down and back up. That’s when I realize I’m in nothing but a negligee; red and obscene. I feel vile dressed like this. Questions I don’t have answers to, flit through my mind.

“Why can’t we go home?” I’m beginning to think this is all a dream. An elaborate hoax played on me by my very own brain.

Mike sighs and draws slow small circles on my skin. “There are two sides to every story, Aub.”

Sniffling, I ask, “What does that mean?”

“Let’s find a place to camp out. You need to rest. You’re shivering because you're in withdrawal. You’re only going to get worse before you get better.” His tone soft and gentle.

“What’s your side of the story, Mike. I want to know—now.”

He blows out a breath and glances at his watch. “I’ll tell you. But first I need to make sure no one can find us.”

“No. Now,” I demand. I slap a hand on his thigh to drive my point home.

“I can’t just box you back up and deliver you to God knows who. I can’t bring you home. Yuri and Gregor will know it was me. And the consequence for crossing them is death. Fuck. I have two rules; never ask what the cargo is and never look at the goods. But I’ve never transported something I thought was alive.” He scrubs his forehead, slick with sweat and leans back against the plane wall. I close my eyes and grit my teeth.

“Transported?”

“I have two choices, feign ignorance; start up the plane and continue to my drop spot or bring you home and endure a death sentence. What the fuck have I stepped in? How did you get mixed up in this babe?”

Fear wraps its icy fingers around my belly. A mewl sounds. A pathetic sound. A painful one. A tortured noise. It comes from me.

“Why’d you open the crate, Mike?”

He punches the back of the pilot seat. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. We’re an hour out from the drop and I had to take a piss so, I landed the plane on what I thought was a serene stretch of river. I was watching my piss stream down and splash into the river and I heard a whimper. I couldn’t see anything though. I tucked in and zipped up and heard a groan. Distinctly human in tone.” His eyes plead with mine to understand. Understand what though? “Then a cry, one that sounded vaguely familiar to me. I crouched down next to the crate and pressed an ear to the box. Breathing. Someone was fucking breathing inside there.” He points at the offending wooden crate. “Or something. Then that goddamned cry again. I pried the lid off. Fuck. Aub. your arms are tiny, skin gray and loose. When your face came into view I stopped short.” He looks away as if the image of me is too much for him to bear.

“You work for the Russians?” I breathe out, steeped in shock.

Mike’s eyes bug out at me. “That’s your biggest question right now?”

“Yes. It is. I saw your face and thought you saved me. I thought … I don’t know. I’m so tired. So foggy. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. And now you’re on the same team as the hell I just left? Just call Liam. Call Nora. They’ll know what to do.” I’m rattling off options like I’ve done this before and I know how idiotic it all must sound tumbling from my mouth.

“Fuck no. Liam doesn’t know I smuggle.”

“Smuggle?” My brain feels as if it’s on fire. Nothing makes sense. Mike doesn’t need to work. Why would he do this? Why would he risk freedom for something as stupid as smuggling for bad men? Dangerous men. The fact that Mike successfully hid this from everyone who loves him makes him a pretty good liar. I’m not sure what that says about me. That even I didn’t suspect a thing. I learned early that nothing is what it seems. Dads abandon families without warning. The nice man at the farmer’s market who gave us bones for our dog beat his kids. The valedictorian's big sister was really her mother. She’d had her in eighth grade. My very own popular, upstanding brother was a rapist. That’s the way life is. People are a menagerie of secrets.

“Yes, smuggle.” My brain whirls. I squeeze my eyes shut in an effort to concentrate.

“What about going home and hiding me there?” My bottom lip starts quivering. I bite it to make it stop. Mike reaches out for me but I dodge his hand.

“Aubry, they know you were in that crate. They will know if you aren’t delivered to your destination. I’m the only person standing between them and wherever you were going. If we go back now, it’s a road paved with dead bodies. Bodies you’ll recognize. Are you ready for that?” he says. A bead of sweat drops from the lobe of his ear. I stare at him but don’t really see him. I don’t really see anything.

“I don’t know. Deliver an empty crate. It buys us time.”

He shakes his head. I watch him closely. Mike is strong jawed, with a straight nose, and eyes that are frosty. Those eyes hold a person tight in their line of sight. And if I’m honest, his is a man's body. He is as different from the men I was used to as the stars are from the ocean. But I thought that made him special, now I’m not certain.

“We need a plan, Aub,” he says.

I wipe at fresh tears with the back of my hand and nod. “Agreed.”