Stolen by Lucy Christopher Page B

body went still. It was similar to how people look when they’ve toked on a joint, totally blissed out. It was weird. I took a step backward, then another. You didn’t stop me. After a few moments you slipped off your boots, and stuck your feet under the sand, too. With all your limbs buried in it like that, it was as if the sand had sprouted you. You snuck open your right eye and looked for me.
    “You’re thinking something,” you said.
    I nodded toward your feet. “Does it hurt?”
    “Nah.” You shook your head. “My feet are tough; everything has to be to live out here.”
    The sun burned the back of my neck. I thought I could see something in the far distance slightly to my left, some sort of shadow. Maybe more rocks, maybe just a heat haze. It hurt to look out at it for long. I walked forward a few feet to get a better view, but quickly gave up. Whatever those glimpses of shadow were, they were impossibly far away. It would take hours, days maybe, to get anywhere close.
    I knelt beside one of the many clumps of grass that were dotted around the landscape. From a distance this grass looked spongy and soft, like giant balls of moss, but when I ran my fingers over it, its spikes pricked and scratched my skin. They were the needles I’d stood on when I’d tried to get away: the reason my feet had got so torn.
    I heard you move up behind me. I heard you swallow. It reminded me of how we’d met in the airport. Then, you’d been close enough to brush against me. This time I moved away. When I looked at you, your hand was raised like you wanted to touch me.
    “Don’t,” I said. “Please.”
    You touched the plant instead. You ran your fingers lightly up one of its long needle leaves. It didn’t seem to sting you.
    “Spinifex,” you said. “When it’s really dry, its leaves roll up. It closes in on itself.” You glanced back at me, your eyes so pale in the sunlight. “Pretty good survival tactic, huh?”
    I didn’t want to look at your too pale eyes, so I looked at the shadows in the distance. Heat was starting to hover over the ground, making everything look shaky and unreal … making me feel sick.

     
    You walked toward the outbuildings. I hesitated at your car, looking in the window to see if you’d left the keys inside. Orange rubbed off onto my clothes as I leaned against the door. The car was white beneath this dust. There were flecks of rust around the windows, a drum of gasoline or something on the backseat, and a piece of scrunched-up clothing in the front. There were two gearshifts below the dashboard. I rested my hand against one of the warm, fat tires.
    You looked bored when I caught up with you. “I don’t know why you keep trying,” you said. “There’s no way out.”
    You took a key from the pocket in your shirt and stepped up onto the crate in front of the first outbuilding. The key clunked as it went in the keyhole. You paused before opening the door.
    “I don’t want to take you in here if you’re not ready,” you said, your voice firm.
    The door dropped on its hinges a bit as you opened it. The room was dark inside and empty-looking. I could make out a few shadowy objects farther in, but nothing else. Suddenly, I didn’t want to go in. I froze, my breathing getting faster. I had this image of you killing me in there, killing me in that dark … leaving my body to rot. You had that weird smile on your face, too, like you wanted to.
    “I don’t know …,” I started to say, but you grabbed me quickly around the shoulders and shoved me inside.
    “You’re going to like this,” you said.
    I started to scream. You held me tighter and tighter, those strong arms of yours squeezing. I struggled against you, tried to get away. But your arms were fastened and solid: a python’s grip. You dragged me farther into the room. It was so dark.
    “Don’t move!” you shouted. “Be still. You’ll wreck it.”
    I bit your arm, spat at you. Somehow I loosened your grip. I fell away