What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER TEN

Of course, I don't actually leave leave. I inhale deeply upon exiting the tent – fresh air has never tasted so good – but then when I spot Emmi sitting by the fire, Dog on her lap, I don't know which I'd prefer: stay in the tent smelling of rot and death, or sit by the little girl who has the face of a ghost. I guess on the upside I can sit next to her and not have to look at her.

I sit on the log beside Emmi. She looks up at me, briefly, before reaching over and picking up something that was sitting beside her. "I thought that if Dog was hungry, you'd be hungry, too," she says, and in her hand is a piece of meat with a stick pierced through it.

"What is it?" I ask as I take the stick from her anyway.

"Fish," Emmi replies. "I caught it in the creek."

Wherever this creek may be. But I don't care. I rip into the fish with my teeth, and though lukewarm, it's the best thing I've had in ages. I haven't eaten anything hot in weeks, mainly because I haven't been successful in catching anything. Unfortunately, the light of a campfire only attracts bugs – mainly mosquitos – and they're the only ones who get a tasty snack.

I finish eating the fish in seconds, and I don't care that Emmi watches me lick my fingers and basically suck up any leftovers. I'm hungry. I'm not sure if Emmi finds me disgusting or interesting, but I feel her eyes on me nonetheless. And I don't turn to her, let alone return her gaze. I hand her back the stick – which looks carved and whittled down, not something that was found on the ground – and extricate Dog from her tiny arms. He's asleep again, a little snore escaping past his teeth, and he moves in his sleep until he flops comfortably in my arms, as if an exchange never occurred.

I can tell without looking at her that Emmi wants Dog back, but I don't care. I found him. He's mine. And she's been looking after him for the last half hour or so while me and Nate basically punched the crap out of each other. Or well, I tried to punch the crap out of him.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Emmi ventures, her voice much more quiet than when she offered me the food.

"I had a sister," I reply. I stop short of being rude, as this little girl has done absolutely nothing to me, and is only trying to find something to talk about. I'm a stranger sitting next to her, and she just wants to have a conversation. So the next time I open my mouth, I try to be a bit more gentle. "She was turning seven. So that would mean she'd be about ... fourteen if she was with me now."

"Oh." I can tell she's apologetic for even asking. And surprisingly, despite Nate having opened the floodgates only a margin, talking to Emmi doesn't seem to have the same effect. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," I say finally.

Emmi looks at me, waiting for me to say something else, and she visibly deflates when I don't. So, she fills the silence, being the excited little girl that she is. "I don't have any brothers or sisters," she says. "My mum and dad only had me."

H-O-L-Y S-H-I-T.

Now I actually look at Emmi, the thought having come unbidden to mind, and I'm surprised I'm not staring at her open-mouthed. She's seven. The end of the world ... Jesus H Christ.

I abruptly turn away and stare at the fire. Now I can see the resemblance between the two: though Emmi is blonde while Nate is dark, they have the same blue eyes.

Speaking of, Nate suddenly vacates the tent with a flurry, the material snapping up as he shoves it aside. His stride is quick and full of purpose; his muscles are bunched and coiled, just waiting to strike, just waiting to be unleashed. He strides away from us to somewhere on the opposite side of camp. Frustration pours out of him, and it's a wonder he hasn't started punching something.

I have the right mind to not approach him, to not go near him, but Emmi doesn't; she sees her father, jumps to her feet and runs after him, maybe because I'm not the best company to have.

Dog stirs in his sleep, so I cuddle him closer and stroke his fur from shoulders to tail; this seems to calm him somewhat, and I can't help but huff a laugh.

It's not long before Emmi reappears, little legs propelling her back to her seat beside me. She looks upset, like a kid who's been told off for either A) being naughty and getting caught, or B) for being unfairly yelled at. I'm going to assume it was the latter.

Against my better judgment, against all thought, reasoning, feelings, emotions, and above all else common sense, I literally shove Dog into Emmi's arms, jump to my feet, and head in Nate's direction.

"You've made Emmi upset," I say as soon as I see him. He has his back to me, his shoulders hunched, muscles bunched, hands curled into fists by his sides. His entire being radiates anger.

"And you care because ...?"

"Because you're taking your frustration out on the wrong person – specifically a seven-year-old child."

He doesn't respond to that. He keeps his back turned. "It has nothing to do with you," he says finally.

"It has everything to do with me." In that moment, all common sense flies out the window. I approach him, grab his arm, and force him to look at me. His face is still bloody, the red drying on his cheeks, his chin. "You brought me here, basically against my will, and now you're telling me this has nothing to do with me?" I poke him in the chest, hard, enough to at least cause some discomfort. "In that case, I'll leave."

And of course, this gets a reaction out of him. He swats away my hand before grabbing my arm like a vice. "Fuck off and mind your own business."

Everything about him screams danger, and it's only accentuated by his anger. Maybe those who know him better would leave him alone, would see that perhaps it's not safe to be around him. Or maybe, despite the anger, it's an intimidation tactic. Maybe he acts like this as a way to get people to leave him alone, to use his power and demeanour to intimidate people.

And I obviously don't get the hint. "Believe me, I want to, but right now you're not exactly giving me a choice," I snap at him. I try and wrench my arm free from his grip, but it's no use. "Let me go."

The words trigger something in him, and he suddenly releases me. I can still feel phantom fingers around my arm. "Don't try and get involved in something that doesn't concern you," he says, voice low, a warning. His muscles strain against his jacket, looking for release, for something to strike.

He's a walking contradiction, but I don't tell him that. Instead I say, "then let me go. Let me go and you put Robbie out of his misery."