people what I know. I have to tell the world what has happened. If not for my father, then for Cal, who only wanted to protect what was his. For Abe, who deserved more than to die on the dirty floor in a derelict shack in the middle of the woods. They deserve more, and only I can give that to them. Then I can sleep. Then I can float on the river’s current and drift away.
Like ghosts, my father says.
Like knives.
I lie back on my side and count to three before I jerk myself up and onto my ass, using my legs as leverage against the floor. My ankle screams at me, but I ignore it. The pain is nothing. It’s nothing compared to everything else.
Then I’m up and take a moment to catch my breath. The air inside the shack is stifling and hot, the little cracks in the walls not enough to ventilate the inside. Another splash of water lands on my head and trickles down my face. The rain thunders on the metal roof, and it sounds like a rushing river.
I press my back up against the wall and scrabble for the open pocketknife. My fingers brush the blade, and I follow it back until I reach the handle. I twist it up in my fingers until the blade is pointed up. My fingers are sticky with blood, sweat, and grime. I can’t let it slip. Not now. I don’t know how much time I have, but it can’t be much.
I press the blade flat against my wrist and slide it up against my skin until it’s under the plastic zip tie. It cuts into the already sliced flesh and I grit my teeth. This is nothing. The pain is negligible, I tell myself. I’ve been through worse. I’m going through worse. The searing of the knife into my flesh? This is nothing.
But the pain grows as I twist the knife, until the edge of the knife is pressed against my wrist, the sharper edge against the plastic of the zip tie. Blood drips down my fingers. I close my eyes and try to visualize my hands behind me. Instead of focusing on the damage I’m doing to my wrist, I focus on what I have to do to make this work. I grip the handle of the knife tightly with my knuckles.
A sound, above the rain. A low rumble. Lights roll up through the shack, flashing through the metal slats. The sound of tires on gravel. The harsh squeal of brakes.
A truck, a large one by the sound of it.
Not much time, I tell myself. Not much time at all. You going to do this? I am.
I grip the knife as tightly as I can. Taking a deep breath, I lift my knuckles up
and down, trying to press it as hard as I can into the plastic and away from my flesh, but it’s not far enough. Each sawing motion nicks my wrist again and again, the point of the blade stabbing into my arm. Blood flows more heavily. I grit my teeth and press up again. The sting of tearing flesh causes my eyes to water. I don’t even know if this is working. I don’t even know if Estelle’s gift is cutting into the plastic at all. Maybe the knife is too dull. Maybe the plastic is too strong. Maybe the only thing I’m doing is cutting my wrist. It’s not going to work. It’s not going to—
The zip tie gives a little. The sawing motion is becoming harder to do because the knife is cutting into the plastic. The pressure around my right wrist lessens slightly. It’s working. I saw up again and tears stream down my face as my wrist is sliced again. More blood drops onto my fingers and gets onto the handle of the knife. The zip tie gives further. Blood flows onto my knuckles and the knife cuts deeper and I think it’s about to—
The knife tumbles from my grip and lands on the floor. I reach for it and close my hands around the handle. Dirt from the floor mixes with the blood on my hands. I try to grip the knife, to twist it again, but I can’t get a good hold on it. I drop it and try to rub my hands against the back of my jeans, the back of my shirt. I can’t get them clean, not enough so I can hold onto