I look from Ian’s feverish pallor to Beck’s gaunt face as my sandpaper tongue scrapes the inside of my arid cheeks, wondering if today will be the day dehydration wins its slow war ofattrition.
Which one of us will diefirst?
“I will,” Beck whispers in a cracking voice, extending the bottle out to me. “Here. Takeit.”
It’s only then I realize I’ve spoken my delirious thoughts aloud. I shake my head with the last dregs of energy, my movements sloth-like. Someone’s shoved a wad of cotton between my ears, muting every sound and color. The world swims before my eyes, out offocus.
“We’ll split it,” I insistweakly.
“Only enough for one.” He flips his wrist and sends the bottle rolling toward me. “You’re smaller. You need less. If you drink it, you might be able to hold outuntil…”
“Until rescuecomes?”
“Rescue? Hell, I’d settle for a singleraincloud.”
A laugh snags in my throat. “Your standards are too low. I’m holding out for a cheeseburger. A big, fat, juicy one with a pile of extra salty fries on theside.”
He groans. “Don’t tortureme.”
“Sorry, it’s my only real pastime on thisraft.”
“Talking about food is cruel and unusualpunishment.”
“Would you rather I throw a bailer at your head again? I’ll untie it thistime.”
“Honestly?” he asks, attempting a light tone. “Yes. A concussion sounds preferable to dying ofthirst.”
My chapped lips crack as a smile tugs at them. I can’t bring myself to comment on the irony of us finally getting along, now that we’re about to die. Come to think of it, perhaps that’s the only reason we’re getting along. We no longer have any need for pretense, nor the energy for verbalsparring.
I’m happy he’s ten feet away. I’m so delirious, if he was close I might find myself doing something stupid, like twining his fingers with mine, or begging him to wrap his arms around me. I don’t want to die, but if I have to… I definitely don’t want to do italone.
“What’s that look?” he asks, eyes locked on my frowninglips.
“Whatlook?”
“The one on your face rightnow.”
I sigh deeply and force myself to say it. “They’re notcoming.”
He stares at meblankly.
“The search party. The rescue mission. They’re not coming, Beck.” My voice catches on his name. “We were hundreds of miles off course when the plane went down. We’ve drifted hundreds more. If anyone is looking for us… they aren’t looking in the rightplace.”
The words trail off into a depressingsilence.
There itis.
The truth, laid out for us both to swallow. It’s a bitterpill.
I’ve known from the beginning, but it’s different to acknowledge it aloud. It feels somehow like a defeat. Like admitting failure, though I’m not exactly sure how wefailed.
Can you fail a situation you have no controlover?
“Violet.”
It’s the first time he’s ever used my name, and it moves through me like an electric shock. My eyes open to focus on him. I didn’t even realize I’d closedthem.
“Drink the water,” he says intently. “Please.”