The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,346

blackened with crescents of dirt. And yet she’d never looked more radiant. As if all that she had seen had become a part of her, infusing her with a glowing stillness. It wasn’t a small thing, to love a person. That was the gift she had offered him, had always offered him. And yet he had refused it.

Sara met his eyes then. She cocked her head in puzzlement. “What?”

He shook his head, embarrassed. “Nothing.”

“You were staring.”

Sara shifted her gaze to Hollis; the corners of her mouth lifted in a quick flash of a smile. Just a moment, but Peter felt it keenly, the invisible line of connection between the two of them. Of course. How could he have been so blind?

“It wasn’t anything,” he managed. “Just … you looked happy, sitting there. It surprised me is all.”

Alicia emerged from the brush. Balancing her rifle against a tree, she retrieved a can from the pile of packs and bladed it open, frowning at the contents.

“Peaches,” she groaned. “Why do I always get peaches?” She took a place on the log and began to spear the soft yellow fruit from the can, straight into her mouth.

“What’s down there?” Peter asked.

Juice was dripping down her chin. She gestured with her blade in the direction she had come. “About half a click east, the river narrows and turns south. There’s hills on either side, heavy cover, lots of high points.” The peaches gone, she drained the can into her mouth and cast it aside, wiping her hands on her gaps. “The middle of the day like this, we’re probably okay. But we shouldn’t hang around too long.”

Michael was sitting a few meters away on the damp ground, his back braced against a log. The days of walking had made him leaner, harder; his chin now sported a wisp of pale beard. A shotgun was resting across his lap, his finger close to the trigger.

“No sign in what, seven days?” He spoke with his eyes closed, his face tipped toward the sun. He was wearing only a T-shirt; his jacket was tied around his waist.

“Eight,” Alicia corrected. “That doesn’t mean we should let our guard down.”

“I’m just saying.” He opened his eyes and turned toward Alicia, shrugging. “A lot of things could have killed that cat. Maybe it died of old age.”

Alicia gave a laugh. “Sounds good to me,” she said.

Amy was standing by herself at the edge of the glade. She was always drifting off like this. For a while this habit had made Peter worry, but she never went very far, and by now they were all accustomed to it.

He rose and went to her. “Amy, you should eat something. We’re moving on soon.”

For a moment the girl said nothing. Her eyes were directed toward the mountains, rising in the sunlight beyond the river and the grassy fields beyond.

“I remember the snow,” she said. “Lying down in it. How cold it was.” She looked at him, squinting. “We’re close, aren’t we?”

Peter nodded. “A few days, I think.”

“Telluride,” Amy said.

“Yes, Telluride.”

She turned away again. Peter saw her shiver, though the sun was warm.

“Will it snow again?” she asked.

“Hollis thinks so.”

Amy nodded, satisfied. Her face had filled with a warm light; the memory was a happy one. “I would like to lie down in it again, to make snow angels.”

She often spoke like this, in vague riddles. Yet something felt different this time. It was as if the past were rising up before her eyes, stepping into view like a deer from the brush. Even to move would scare it away.

“What are snow angels?”

“You move your arms and legs, in the snow,” she explained. “Like the ones in heaven. Like the ghost Jacob Marley.”

Peter was aware that the others were listening now. A single strand of black hair pushed over her eyes in the wind. Watching her, he felt himself transported back through the months to that night in the Infirmary when Amy had washed his wound. He wanted to ask her: How did you know, Amy? How did you know my mother misses me, and how much I miss her? Because I never told her, Amy. She was dying, and I never told her how much I would miss her when she was gone.

“Who’s Jacob Marley?” he asked.

Her brow furrowed with a sudden grief. “He wore the chains he forged in life,” she said, and shook her head. “It was such a sad story.”

They followed the river, into the afternoon. They were in the