The One Thing I know

"The one thing I know is that God is good.
That his heart bleeds every time a human’s heart does.
Our pain is his pain, all of it, all of it.
And that he is gentle, and steadfast, and will not waste one drop of our suffering."

from
http://chubbicsblog.wordpress.com/2013/11/02/the-one-thing-i-know/

The Morning People--More Hospital Scenes

The old man groaned. Mary lifted him gently, inch by inch, his rigid limbs trembled. Diella realized what she was trying to do, and shifted the pillow back. Mary pulled until the small of his back fit into the bend of the hospital bed. Then pulled the blanket firmly about him

“We’ve got to keep the bend of his back in the bend of the bed”

“Why?”

“Better for his circulation. And he needs to sit up a couple hours a day, so he can see the larks”

She pushed him toward the open window, so he could see out over the junkyard, with the vines growing over the rusting cars, and the swallows darting from their nests. It was a bright clear morning. The birds chattered.

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. You’ve been a hero” she gripped his hand. “I’m sorry about all this pushing and pulling, I’ll be back in half an hour with your breakfast, and George should be here with the stories very soon.”

Then she bent her head by his, and prayed through the Our Father. Mr Johnson was not speaking any more, his eyes just stared. But Anja imagined she saw his lips trying to move as she prayed. When it was over, Mary smiled at him, (her warm camp-fire like smile, Anja thought)

“I’m be coming back”

And she kissed his old cheek, fussed with the pillows one more time, and then followed Anja down the hall. She always did that for all the dying, Anja noted. Though Anja had yet to see her even hold the hand of her boyfriend. If that's who he was. That man all bulky in coats and gear, but quick and silent as a cat, holding his shoulders like a king.  It started the night when she was on the malaria floor, she had come up to the dying floor for gauze wrap. She saw Mary working, and then this man came,  She ducked down by a patient’s bed and watched. It was all too novel-like and mysterious not to. The two of them talking in their little circle of lamplight in the darkness, like a stage-light, and him giving her mysterious packages. After that, she found reasons to help out on the dying floor at night. But she’d mostly been disappointed, the handful of times he came they just stood by the pillar, whispering, and then he’d disappear in half an hour. And the mysterious package he’d given her, Anja found on further espionage into hall closet, turned out to be beef jerky and granola bars.

 She’d asked Tessa once, who he was, why he was so mysterious, and why he left so soon. Tessa had told her to mind her own business, but on further prying, had cryptically said “perhaps he has reasons to be mysterious.” Which only made it that much more interesting. 

But after that Tessa wouldn’t talk any more, and somehow made sure her nightshifts were always on some other floor. Which was ok. After witnessing a few deaths there, Anja decided it wasn't worth a smidgen of awkward romance. 

But she still hadn’t dared ask Mary about it. Perhaps for the fear it would turn out he was trucker or a rancher or something boring, and mostly because, well, she didn’t want Mary to know she knew. To know she had a boyfriend would be an invasion of privacy, somehow, like reading someone else’s diary.

Mary wiped her brow. She was small, and lifting the patients took a lot out of her.

“At noon we’ll have to put Mr. Johnson in the flat bed again, if you could help me again with that”

“Why don’t we just make the bed flat, I mean, it’s a hospital bed”

“Its broken”

“I thought you said we had a couple dozen working ones?”

“Not anymore”

“You can’t get any new ones from the hospital supply branch?”

Mary smiled wryly.

“It was them who took the working ones away.”

“Why??!”

“To be distributed to hospitals who ‘were more vital to the community’”

“Well, how are we going to serve the community if we haven’t got working equipment? Hey, didn’t they take the oxygen tanks too? And—“

But seeing the pain on Mary’s face stopped. It was still raw. She realized for every oxygen tank and bed taken, Mary had to evict, or shut off the oxygen for a patient. Only to Mary they weren’t ‘patients’, terminal anyways. To her they were ‘Mr. Johannsen’, ‘Mrs. Gallenham’, “Jordan”….And Mary felt the shame of watching them lose the little she had been able to give them. Drat those bureaucrats. But had they been right? Didn’t an otherwise healthy college student or 7 year old child need the oxygen more than say, one of Mary’s terminal old people, or preemie who didn’t stand a decent chance?

“Well, we’re not a real hospital, we are a terminal ward after all. I guess we have to make the best of the leftover tech from the other hospitals, hah, its already like that with the patients”

“We’re all terminal”

She looked at Mary. She was angry. She never had seen Mary angry. Together they changed the bandages on the entire wing, Marys lips pressed together white, in silent fury.

The stepped out into the hallway. Mary held her face, slumping against the wall. She was tired.

“Look, if you need a break, I think I can handle…”

“No, Anja. Forgive me. I was wrong to hate”

 “For taking the oxygen tanks?”

“for taking the beds, the oxygen, the medicines, the surgery tools, the maternity unit, the---everything they’ve done to this hospital. It used to be what you called ‘a real hospital’. After the riots, I thought we could carry on, many people would know we weren’t monsters, I thought. But then the regulators came....and it’s like this now. The only reason they let us care for----how you said it, ‘the leftovers’---is because the‘leftovers’ no longer ‘qualify.’ So they may as well come to us, they think, come to our bombed out shell of a ‘terminal ward.”

It was the most words Anja had ever heard come from Mary’s mouth at once. 

“I must forgive them, Anja, but how? The bitterness, I hold on to it”

Anja shuffled her feet. She was embarrassed. How exactly she had become Mary’s confessor she wasn’t sure.

“Pray for me Anja, there is poison in me.  The patients deserve better than me like this. If they can forgive---and Anja, they have forgiven so much—then I can forgive---”

There was another silence.

“I confess to Almighty God, to Mary ever virgin, to Michael…

Anja really didn’t want to be here for this.

…and to all the saints that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed…

Anja was paralyzed by awkwardness

through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault….

Just when she thought it couldn’t get any more awkward, Mary was thumping herself. Anja inwardly groaned and shut her eyes. Mary was not a dramatic person. This felt painful, like watching a junior high school play.

…. and all the saints, to pray for me to the Lord our God. Amen.

Anja didn’t move, paralyzed by awkwardness.

Mary wiped her brow, straightened up, smiling in thanks, like Anja had just ordered her a sandwich from a cafe.

“Thank you for praying for me”

Anja nodded, because she didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t that she didn’t pray. She just preferred now to think of the God of her childhood as a Higher Power, a force of love, who was there for you, somehow.

But this king on a throne whose peons had to beat their chests and wail about being the scum of the earth? It was all so…medieval.

****

“Why?”

“They’re talking about the Pastor Karol scandal.”

Mary looked sad, and bent back over the bandaging.

“Mary”

“Yes?” her fingers still pulling the gauze strips tight.

“Why do—why do you religious ones, insist on telling everyone your high standards?”

Mary was quiet.

“I mean, isn’t it better just to live them? Whey talk about the sexual commands in the Bible? This pastor scandal was a shame, but I know this happens all the time in the corporate world….we’re humans. It happens. But no one cares, because they don’t go around telling people what to do, that God sayeth thou shalt not...I mean, its good to have convictions, but why announce them? If you tell people that’s how they’re supposed to behave, one, they’re not going to listen to you, and two, it just makes them mad. Why even talk about them at all? Don’t let them know you have this crazy high standard, because then they use it against you when you can’t keep it, and they take it for granted, when you do. Isn’t it better to let your actions speak for themselves? And then, when you do mess up, it’s not as big of a deal, they’ll say, hey, my boss does that all the time, an only a handful of the pastors do it”

Mary finished wrapping the arm, and tied off the gauze strands. She stood up.

“Anja, did you ever wonder why we wear white at the hospital?”

“No, why?”

“So the dirt will show.”

She got up, and began to wash the open bedsores with a fresh bowl of water.

***

The Morning People--Forest scene

Diella ran faster. She could hear the hum of the trucks, roaring on their gas pedals. Drat this open terrain. Just a little farther to the forest, where she knew the trucks were good as elephants on the cliffs. And there, she was a falcon.

Something hit her in the shoulder. Drat Drat Drat... She didn't have time to look, but in her head she was already figuring if her muscle or bone was hit. No pain yet. Figured. She was drunk with adrenaline. Seeing every blade of grass shoot past, aware of every straining muscle. Alert and alive as only the hunted hare know, alive as those who are about to die. If it had just hit muscle, just a matter of pain, she could climb the trees. But if it hit her shoulder socket, she would not be able to climb the trees. Not able to climb the trees....

They were firing now, and pretty good range too, she saw some vegetation cut down 10 meters to her right. She was running, running with every milliliter of adrenaline in her, her blood roaring in her ears. A bullet whistled past her ear. Now would be a good time to start praying. If she knew to whom.

There was a loud sound behind her, an explosion, but she had not time to look, even breathing felt a horrible delay in her one purpose, run. The forest neared, its first trees with their welcoming branches reaching out toward her—they shot past her, all around her, and she was up, up swinging higher and higher into them, gripping their familiar great branches, lost in the leafy masses of their ancient boughs. She flew up and out, her fingers remembering the holds before her mind could interfere, she was up, over the old compound wall, on the old oak...the pain hit her. Nausea. She gripped the branch before her, wrapping her arms and legs firmly around the old wood, catching a dim glance of something burning on the road beyond the treetops, before the darkness started closing in.

****

Peter knew something was up when he heard the roar of jeeps. There was usually only one, or at the most, two, patrolling this backwater road round the old forest preserve. Usually just some guard driving fast and trying to get this bit of the patrol over with around shift change, not paying that much attention, or driving slowly, enjoying the ride, with the windows down and the music high, often eating donuts. Peter patrolled this area of the wood. He'd watched the watchers for a while, perched high up in the treetops with his rifle, radio, and journal. And books. Sometimes. But he really tried to keep his eyes and ears open, though mostly it was just the handful of patrolmen.  And squirrels.

He's learned a lot about squirrels. How they act up in the nests, when they don't think anyone is watching, how they lined their nests with bunches of leaves, how they chirped to each other in the world of the treetops. He liked squirrels.

But today, the squirrels had scurried off, even at the first dull roar of a jeep. Peter knew that meant something was up, he wasn’t sure what. He’d prepped his AR-15, tuned his radio, and melted into the lookout branch. There were jeeps alright. A good 4 of them. The most he’d ever seen here. And they were roaring along, not just like men trying to finish out the route, either. More like the way the wild dogs would run on a chase. And then there was rabbit, a boy, running up ahead, in green and brown, his long hair streaking out like the tail of a kite. Running. Then there was a flash from the jeeps, several flashes.

It took a long 3 seconds for it to sink in, there a person down there, and they are trying to kill him. Peter swung into action, he aimed at the left window of the first jeep, where the flashes were coming from, and fired away. It only hit him as he reloaded, that there was a person behind those flashes. His stomach felt like he was going to throw up. The flashes were still coming from more windows. He aimed for the front tire of the first jeep, and neatly took both a front and back wheel out, then took out both back wheels of the second jeep, and one of the third, before he had to reload. But it had worked, the jeeps were screeching to a halt. Where was the boy? He saw him running toward the forest—no wait, was it a girl? And she was hit, blood flew out and hit the path. But he ducked his head down, some foliage twenty yards to his right shredded by a real automatic. By the look of the random fire, they hadn’t seen him exactly yet. But the fugitive was still be in range. He had to distract them. He fumbled for the grenades he kept with his snack crackers, pulled the pin, swung up, and aimed for the trucks. Only at the last moment, seeing those little toy men down there, he aimed wide. Then swung down against the branch, waiting for the explosion, “Dear God, don’t let this kill anyone.” If they’d seen him, it was over for him. “or them get me” he added, the detonation going off with his Amen.

***

She fought off the darkness—it was like a ring of shadow, of greyness—pressing in from the edges of her vision. She gasped for breath. Her arms felt like they were turning into someone else’s, disobedient to her commands. Hold on. Breath. Hold on. She clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood, drowning in a sea of treetops. She couldn’t hold the greyness, it rushed in, with incredible nausea, sealing out her vision.

***

He lay in the treetop quite a long time. He could hear the murmuring voices below him, his silence-trained ears could hear the crunch of the leaves far down below where they trod. It seemed there was some sort of heated argument.

            “…you kidding, and start a forest fire?”

            “What do you suggest, we start *&^*&^&* logging?”

The response was something indiscernible.

The cacophony of their tones reassured him, over the hammering of his heart. Then another voice cut in, a shout, but full of authority.

            “Idiots! What do…..watch….set a watch….what goes up must come down…”

His heart was hammering afresh. He could live a good while in the treetops, but not without water. He only had one and a half canteens left. Then how long before dizziness and dehydration kicked in…God help me. Make them stupid. Make them leave.

There was more indiscernible chatter, some of it pretty agitated.

            “I’m telling you it was a copter! One of those new quiet ones…”

Yes yes, it was a helicopter. Please make them remember a helicopter, God, please.

There was more debate. His heart was hammering so loudly now, he wondered if he was wearing it out. His uncle had once said you only had so many beats before you heart wore out. His uncle said that to justify not exercising, but Peter believed it now. His heart felt like it was bursting, squeezing all the life out of it. He realized he was breathing too fast, the green leaves above him seemed to tremble. He was getting dizzy. This was not good. He began to pray the Lords Prayer over and over, trying to block out the arguments below.

            “Our Father who art in heaven…

            “Crazies don’t have that kinda technology! If you are saying…”

            “…saw a copter …. the treetops”

            “Your kingdom come, Your will be done…”

            “….A copter here, and none of the surveillance picked it up?”

            “They don’t survey this place much, now do they?”

            “A copter that fires off single rifle bullets?”

            “But deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom…”

            “…Civilian copter with silencers? To what, not to disturb the tourists?!”

            “…. saw it hovering over the treetops....”

            “Makes no &%&^%& sense, why’d they have a …. silencers….undergunned….”

            “Our Father...”

            “…(^&)*(&(*& crack shot. You think a strafing copter could get out 5 wheels?..”

            “…aiming from the cockpit…”

            “Forever and Ever. Amen. Our Father…”

The voices were lower now, he couldn’t make out the words, just the faint sound of argument. Then perhaps one voice going on a while, he couldn’t tell. Finally, what sounded like commands. Then sounds that may have been spare tires coming out. He wondered about the window he’d fired into, if whoever had been there was arguing below, or was wounded, or…gone to eternity. He wondered if the girl had gotten away, if she’d been hit, if she was alive or dead somewhere in the woods once the adrenaline wore out. He was so tired. Finally he heard the sound of jeeps driving away, but couldn’t tell how many motors had ignited, wasn’t paying enough attention. But the squirrels hadn’t come back out of the nests yet. He wasn’t moving.

He watched the light angle deeper and deeper along the branches, turn gold, and fade away from the darkening leaves. The squirrels were back out, chirping along, leaping along the branches. Finally, as the darkness clung and grew in the tangles of twigs, he eased himself up along the branch. They had infrared, he knew, so best be careful. Very careful. Slowly he eased himself up along the branch. A squirrel across the road burst into a horrible altercation, probably a dispute over nests. That should distract someone not used to squirrels. A burst of fully automatic fire said that it had. He peered down, right there, with a back to him, were a couple of figures sloppily hidden against the rocks. Peter had excellent night vision, even if he was far sighted. They didn’t know two cents worth about stealth, the moonlight gleamed on their canteen cups as they drank their coffee. They were whispering together, both of them turned toward the offending squirrel. Probably rookies, left here to watch. But he couldn’t shoot those rookies, with their backs turned to him, drinking their coffee. If only he had a gun like those in his books, with the stun setting.

Best stay here till the moon set, and get down then. But the girl, what if she’d been hit. A nagging feeling, like every minute mattered, kept tugging at the corners of his mind. He had to get down. Soon.

An owl hooted. Another clip went off in that direction. Wow, these guys were idiots. Probably city kids, must be new to the patrol, probably had never spent the night in the forest before. A lot of kids never got out much these days. What with the war aftermath and all. Schools and parents didn’t want kids wandering the wilds, with discarded IED, and chemical weapons, and gi-hirion threat and all. It was safer to have the kids inside. It was sad, not knowing what rivers and mountains were except from computer games. Like the reality was in the scripted games, and real owls and squirrels were the imaginations in the dark, the backdrop of horror films, the unreality. But what was reality to them? Their scripted show of their politics and tailored news. They wanted the script. Slowly he eased himself across the rough bark, moving an inch or two, waiting for the moments when the wind stirred the leaves and brought the whole forest roaring like the sea, their leaves silver in the moonlight. It felt like hours. He didn’t even bother to touch the splinters and the sap that worked its way into his flesh. Finally, he was at the base of the tree. A good wind had picked up, and was sending clouds over the moon. A sudden curiosity seized him, to know what those two rookies were speaking of. He had to go that direction anyway, if he was going to look for the fugitive. He crept along, silent as a cat in the darkness. Soon he was so close he could hear their s’s. They definitely didn’t know 2 cents about stealth. Emboldened by their ignorance, he came so close he could hear their whispers.

“Charles, you are shooting at animals. That was an owl, I think”

“Oh shutup, Susanna, you let a whole clip go at that freaking monkey”

Monkeys indeed. It was a threatened squirrel. Did these kids think they were in the jungle? And anyone with the name Susanna should never be allowed in secret ops.

            “You think it was a copter?”

            “Sgt. Jennifer says she saw one”

            “Yeah, Sgt. Thomas didn’t seem to think the terrorists had copters with silencers. And all his fuss about the weapon used an all. He didn’t think it was possible”

            “Well, Sgt. Thomas is a %^$^%$. He thinks cuz he knows weapons and planes and copters that he’s better than anyone else in this unit. “

            “But would they fire a rifle from a copter? And a &*^(&* good shot too”

            “Dunno, coulda been an open cockpit”

            “None of us saw it”

            “Were you looking?”

            “Were you?”

They lapsed into stung silence.

            “I think Thomas would say anything to contradict Sgt. Jennifer. He hates her taking his place and all. And y’now, her being a woman “

            “You think he’s a sexist?”      

            “He tries to hide it, but yeah”

They lapsed into silence. Peter began inching his way away, wishing he’d done it when they were still talking. Another owl hooted, and he could feel them tensing up in the darkness.

“Who was that runaway, do you think?”

            “Captain wouldn’t say. I think it was one of those right wing terrorists”

            “You sure? She didn’t seem to have a weapon”

            “Could have been a spy, gathering intelligence.”

            “You don’t think it was an escapee?”

The boy snorted.

            “She’d be in a fluorescent jumper then. Not some sorta Lord of the Rings outfit”

            “Lord of what?”

            “Its…just a game I played once”

            “But she could’ve been a prisoner.You know they say there’s a prison compound here. Under the forest”

The boy grunted.

            “You think its true?”

            “Why’d they have it here? The fighting’s on the front.”

There was a silence, finally the girl spoke as one choosing words carefully.

            “Rumors are that it isn’t for war prisoners”

            “What is it then for, terrorists?” There was a sharpness to his tone.

            “You know how the rumors are” studied nonchalance.

They were silent. He began to inch away toward the rocks.

Suddenly both of them leaped up like a released bowstring, fully automatic weapons flashing clips after clip. He ran.

The blood screamed in his ears. The crack of bullets.  His feet crashed into ground; his heart crashed in his chest. Scrambling up the rocks, he was up up, the old tree, and over the wall. Looking back, he saw the muzzle points still flashing, facing off to the west. They were assassinating a herd of deer. He caught his breath. Idiot, he’d been as jumpy as the rookies. They could have seen him running with no cover, if they hadn’t been busy with the deer. He caught his breath, and swung across the branches, slamming into something, he stifled a scream.

It was a body. Still warm, slumped over the branch, his hand came back sticky with blood. It was the fugitive; he pulled back her cloak and pushed into her neck, feeling for a pulse. It was the longest second of his life. It came. He breathed again. It was weak, but there.

Quickly he felt for the wound, peeling back the cloak, right there, in the left upper arm. Ugh, a mass of blood clots. And was this bone sticking out? His fingers felt around the wound, as he tried to remember everything Ariel had taught him about staunching and major arteries when Caspar had been hit.

The Morning People--Hospital scene

He knew better than to come by the front. They would be watching him. Not that they wouldn't be watching the back entrance too, but it was getting dark and he had a much better shot at melting into shadows by the dumpsters then ringing the front doorbell. Ariel Sheldon was good at not being seen when he wished not to be. Through the rubbish and dumpsters, and he was through a back window, up the familiar spiral concrete stair with its dead EXIT signs still over every doorframe. The windows had long been blasted out here, whatever the war hadn’t done the riots had, but he could see that oilcloths had been painstakingly nailed on the sixth floor windows. The floor for the 'critical patients' in modern gentle language, or in more basic cruder terminology, the dying. Done by someone who how it was lying hour after hour with the smells of the street coming in, waiting to die.

He pushed into the corridor, dimly lit by floating kerosene lamps, each attached to a nurse walking among the beds. By the north pillar he stopped and watched her. She was standing by a bed washing out boils on an old man. By the kerosene light he saw her brow furrowed, her lips moving in words of comfort as the man flinched with the washing. Her dark hair slipped out a little from her kerchief. His trained eye could read the sweat lines etched down her face and the weariness in her movements. It had been a bad day, probably some deaths. But her eyes were bright.

Finally, the old man settled down. She put her rag back into the water. He saw her hand hesitate a moment a few inches above the sleeping face, and knew she was making the sign of the cross. She did that. He hadn't stirred, but she suddenly looked up, knowing she was watched. She came toward him with her lamp, her face tense and brave. Quickly he shook his hood off.

 “Mary, its me” 

A smile broke out across the weariness, like sudden dawn.

“Ari” was all she said. Closer, he could see how exhausted she was, probably hadn't sat down since dawn. Probably was fasting. Again.

“I thought I would come see you, before heading out.” 

“They're looking for you again.” 

“I know.” 

They were both tired, just standing there. She was definitely fasting, he could read it in the way her hand holding the lamp trembled. She caught his look, and steadied it against the pillar.

“Mary, did you eat anything today?” 

 “Did I? It’s been such a day—“  She faltered. Mary had never been good at lying.“Mrs. Gallenham died this morning. And Rose. I had to.”

Rose, the abandoned baby. No wonder. Mary took to fasting like most people took to drink. His hands were already going through his satchel for beef jerky.

“And it gives me strength. Clearer head.” 

His hands froze on the buckles.

“They came here? They were questioning you?”

 She waved her hands dismissively, his eyes remained locked on hers and read there enough.

“It was nothing. Just words.” 

“And threats.”

“Don't hate them. They are so pitiful. I offered it up for their souls.” 

He dug through the pack for the jerky, his hands shaking with rage. The mental image of those bureaucrats who think they are gods, who destroyed her hospital, those idiots, harassing, barking at, threatening her. Her, forced to stand, hour after hour to endure the petty rage, the suspicion, the mockery, right on the heels of the death of the baby she named. Her, hungry, weak, not even hating them..... He glared into the pack at his hands finding the jerky and wrenched it out of its stubborn container. He was angry, raging angry. And hoping she did not read the fear in his eyes.

She put a small hand on his arm, trying to say what words couldn't. He couldn't meet her eyes, for fear of the fear she might find there. Instead he gave her the beef jerky, and a granola bar.

“Please eat it” 

“Thankyou! I'll save it” 

“No, really, Mary you need it.”  

“But I really am not so hungry now, I'll eat it soon”—she tried to cram it into her apron pocket, in whatever space was left by 12 yards of gauze wrap, ointment, stethoscope, and her battered copy of  Modern Saints. In what deeps of the past, he wondered, had the author chosen that title. That strange term ‘modern.’ But someday people would remember this time as some dark age in the mists of the past. He hoped.

But back to the beef jerky, he knew that if it went there, she would have a bite to keep her word, but it would end up fed to some patient. Meat was a rare treat in this part of the city these days.

“Please, Mary.”

“Have you eaten yet this week?” 

“Yes, I had some jerky before I came here” (a couple bites, to make it true if she asked)

“Have you eaten yet week?”

 “Oh, yes. A few days ago. With the men” 

“I'm going to go eat. Would you like to come?” 

In his minds eye he could see the old priest and the odd assortment of nuns and dying who had nothing left to lose (or be taken), crammed into the old janitorial closet, or air duct, or whatever else they had. He could hear the prayers, whispered from dozens of lips from fierce memory, a blend of English and Spanish and Latin, and feel the life coursing in him again, like water.

“I can't---there's somewhere I have to be”  He thought of his contact, waiting at midnight by the old power plant, he couldn't miss that rendezvous. But there was a very good chance it was a trap, only he couldn't miss it even if it were...It was about 9ish now, and if he made good time...

“When are you going to eat, I mean, in how long?” 

Mary could read his face at least as well as he could hers. They worked, in a way, together, these last 10 years, which was a lifetime in this world. Her hand imperceptibly tightened on his arm.

“This place you have to be--- its dangerous?” 

“Since when isn't it? Since when is anywhere not? Here is--” 

“Ariel, I know your face. You have to meet someone?” 

He did not speak. It was better that she not know these things.

“Ariel, are you sure---I mean---just now, you looked like when Padraig was—was--taken”

 He thought of a dozen diffusing words that were not quite lies, but that could deceive. But all words were lost as sudden wave of intense weariness washed over him.

“I have to trust, Mary. It’s, it’s not just my life that’s---look, Mary, I can't tell you these things. No, don’t look at me like that. It’s different then when we worked together, you were an unknown then. Now they know who you are, where to find you.  It’s better for us all if you don't know” 

“Ariel, I won’t talk”

And he knew she meant it to, and knew what that really meant.

“I think I should know. If it’s a matter of judgment----”

“Can you trust my judgment here?” 

She shut her eyes. He trusts people too much, Padraig, I knew Padraig was an informant all along, no proof, just felt it. But Ariel trusted him because of what he had done, and the past they had shared. In the end, Padraig had spoken before his handlers killed him. But Ariel was playing his life in his hands, they both knew it.

“Can you just trust God on this, then?”

She was silent.

“How long till you eat?” 

And now he was preparing for death, should it come. But from somewhere she heard her voice rise strong “Soon. We can make it sooner if you come.”

           “I'll come” 
****

Together they walked to the hall. She put on her coat, and they disappeared into the shadows, winding their way through the abandoned cars in the junkyard by the side. So it wasn't in the closet or the air duct, he wondered why.  She was taught and alert as a cat, listening, moving slowly across the field, flitting from shadow to shadow. But he could see her limbs shaking, she wouldn't be able to make it to the river. Crouched by the crumbling frame of an SUV he caught her ear

         “Mary”

        “Yed?” 

        “I think God wantd you to eat the beef jerky”   

        “How do you know?”   

        “I jud know, I jud know—I have thid feeling,” 

He could feel the warmth of her smile even in the darkness. 

        “Ariel”  

       “I'm derious” 

       “Okay” 

As she ate the jerky, he looked up at the clouds flitting across the stars. A good hour till moonrise, and midnight was only an hour after that. He should be getting back to the old power factory soon---but he wanted this, this time with Mary, and the blood of God in his mouth, to face that meeting with. He knew it well might be his last. 

***