Chapter 1: Out There Is Where You Belong

 

The patrolman’s boots crunched on the gravel as he strode back to his cruiser, the sound fading into the emptiness of Death Valley. I tried to scream, to move, to do anything that might catch his attention, but I was pinned beneath the dead weight of my companion—my wrists bound tight behind me, fingers numb and useless, legs lashed so fiercely I could barely feel them. My chest burned with the effort of trying to breathe, my mouth so dry I couldn’t even form a word.

My companion was draped over me in the confines of the trunk, motionless. I wriggled my fingers, willing them to move, to find something—anything—to tap on. Nothing.  For a heartbeat, I thought the officer hesitated. Maybe he sensed something was off—a flicker of doubt as he glanced back at the old muscle car and the “boys” he’d just let off with a warning. But the moment passed. He kept walking, his silhouette shrinking in the rearview mirror until the red and blue lights disappeared, swallowed by the desert dusk.

Bryan leaned in, his face close enough that I could smell the sweat and cigarettes on his breath. “Don’t go toward the mountain,” he said, his voice low and flat. “Out there is where you belong.” He gestured at the endless expanse of sand, the arrow-straight road vanishing into the horizon, the sun bleeding out behind the nearest bluff. Then he was gone, and the world faded to black.

When I came to, it was night—deep, moonless, the kind of darkness that feels alive. I waited, listening to the silence. Not a single light anywhere in front of me. Only the pale outline of the Matterhorn-like peak behind.  Jagged and indifferent. The air was cooling fast, the heat of the day giving way to a creeping chill that settled into my bones.

I forced myself to move. Inch by inch, I rolled my friend off me, gritting my teeth as the ropes bit into my skin. He didn’t stir. I whispered his name, once, twice, but he was icy and stiff.  I couldn’t leave him. Maybe not for the right reasons—maybe because I was afraid to be alone, more than anything else.

I hoisted him up, his arm slung over my shoulder, and staggered toward the foothills. Each step was a battle, the sand sucking at my shoes, the weight of him dragging me down. The sky was a velvet shroud, pricked with stars that seemed impossibly far away. I kept moving, driven by something primal—fear, hope, stubbornness, I couldn’t tell.

The trees appeared out of nowhere—pines, their cones banana-shaped and strange, needles packed tight against the wood. The scent was sharp, almost medicinal, a reminder that life still clung to this place. I found a spot where the road leveled out, a break in the shoulder guard, not quite a clearing, but enough.

I laid my friend down on a bed of pinecones, arranging his limbs as gently as I could. Blood from my fingertips dripped onto the stones as I unearthed them, each drop catching the starlight and flaring like a tiny lighthouse. I knelt beside him, hands shaking, and whispered prayers to St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children and miracles; to St. Christopher, guardian of travelers; to St. Michael, my mother’s favorite, her self-proclaimed right-hand archangel.

“Help him find his way home,” I begged, voice raw. “Let someone find him. Let someone find us.”

The wet spots on the stones glowed brighter,  blindingly bright. I thought death must be close, I must be hallucinating. The beams of brilliant white light shooting up into the night sky all aroud us, as if the desert itself was answering my prayer.

August, 1997. The year everything changed.

Later, they'd tell me it was Kat masquerading as Bryan. They were always trying to confuse the issue. Kat has bichromial irises, Bryan does not.