All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 40

40

Patch knew dreams were experience and anticipation, the trace of memories and proportioned acts.

The girl smelled of the outside, of sun lotion and cherry gum and woodsmoke.

“Open your mouth and swallow this pill.”

He did not know her accent. Maybe it came from somewhere far south, where cotton grew and bourbon was drunk.

Her hand was smooth and warm on his jaw as she tilted his head back and placed a pill on his tongue and pressed a bottle to his lips.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Her breath was hot and sweet.

He could not speak.

“I’ll tell you something then. Shrimps’ hearts are in their heads. So they’re likely impulsive and practical. My mother said I’m all heart, but that simply isn’t true. People talk about falling in love like a fall is ever a good thing.”

The strain of trying to find his voice brought a sweat.

He heard the sound of her fingers against the floor, the walls, like she was mapping as she spoke.

“People say there isn’t a grand plan. You know about serendipity?

Maybe. You definitely know about fate and that whole sorry idea.”

“What are you?” he said, finally, in a whisper that sounded wrong, like he’d forgotten the order of words.

“Just a girl trying to find her way through the darkness.”

He went to speak again but she caught it.

“No names and no places. The big man listens. You’re alive, right?”

“Yes.” His voice was a croak.

“So maybe we don’t do nothing that might alter that fact. If you’re sick, you tell me. If you’re hungry or you need more water. A bucket for washing, another for toilet. Fifteen paces to the door and you can leave it

there and it’ll be changed quick.”

“How long have I been here?” he said.

“Ten sleeps.”

“It must have been more than—”

“Your head is up in the—”

“Clouds,” Patch said.

“The peak of the clouds, with the angel. Maybe you see the Misty Moon from up there.”

“Misty?” he said, the confusion thick. “What day is it?”

“Days were named after the planets of Hellenistic astrology. Saturn, Sun, and Moon. Saturday, Sunday,…Moonday.”

She moved closer until her bare leg pressed to his.

“Are you real?”

“As real as this life is,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“And the man, is he…the devil or something?”

“We’re each our own devil, right?”

He felt the fever creeping, and when she placed a hand across his hand he heard her draw breath and curse lightly.

“Hotter than hades,” she said.

“There were pirates in the Persian Gulf—” he squinted like he could see them. “The predatory. When they felt a fever coming they believed it charged them hot enough to sear their enemies, so they headed into battle.”

“And got their sick asses handed to them,” she said, and he felt a breeze as she sliced at the air with an imaginary sword.

“I need to go home now,” he said.

She went quiet awhile, so he reached out and brushed her shoulder and found her like light during the bleakest winter night.

“What do I do?” he said.

“Pray.” She gripped his face tight. “You want to survive down here, you kneel and pray when he’s around. And you believe.”

“But, I don’t—”

“There’s a reason I’m still here and the other girls aren’t.”

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