It fascinates me, watching this guy and his Pandora. I still haven’t gotten over the fact that we’re in this race and that we have these animals to help us through. Thinking about the other Contenders, I wonder if their Pandoras have hatched, too.
Am I the only one left with an egg?
I try not to think about it as I watch the guy move around, finding a comfortable position to sleep. He’s extremely tall — well over six feet — and it seems every inch of his frame is covered in muscle. I knew guys like him in school. The ones who spent every waking hour pumping iron so they could stare at their sweaty masses in the mirror. I do wonder about his disfigured ear, though, and the scar over his eye. And I wonder about other things, too: the way he circles his makeshift beds like the lion beside him, or the way he rubs his left elbow when he’s thinking. And, good Lord, how many times does one person need to crack his knuckles in a day? Only the knuckles over four fingers, though, never the thumb.
Crack your damn thumb, I think every time he does it. You’re forgetting your thumb!
Watching him has been my entertainment for over thirty-six hours, a distraction from a cruel realization — my Pandora may never hatch. At times, I imagine him seeing me in the distance and welcoming my company, but I know that won’t happen — not with this one.
The dark, shadowed jungle of the day has morphed into the black hue of night, so I don’t see any harm in inching closer. Last night, I slept as far away as I could while still keeping him in my line of sight. Tonight, I can’t bear to be more than a few feet away. He may hear me, but with this cloak of darkness, he’ll never see me.
Folding my arms around my knees, I close my eyes. Inside my head, I’m back home in Boston, sitting in front of the TV with a bowl of kettle corn. My dad is talking football with Cody, and my mom is harping on us to come to the table … and for me to lay off the popcorn before dinner. I picture us sitting down to my dad’s meat loaf, the kind with the red gravy. Cody will make a remark about Brad Carter sucking face with a new girl, and I’ll sock him in the arm. Mom will get mad. Dad will laugh.
Before I can stop myself, I start to hum to Madox. It’s the tune to my mom’s bedside song — our sicky song. I hum for several seconds until I hear a cracking sound. When I open my eyes, I spot Green Beret staring in my direction.
Crap!
Oh well. It’s not like he can see me. It’s too dark. But then he stands up and steps closer. I hold my breath, willing him to look away. He lifts his chin and leans toward where I’m sitting. Shaking his head, he runs his hands through his dark hair. Then he lets out a long sigh that says in no uncertain terms that he’s wildly irritated.
I’m not sure whether it’s his bed made of sticks that has him pissed, or if he’s spotted me. I lock my muscles in place and pretend I’m a lifeless stump. Nothing to see here, folks. He looks in my direction for a long time, then turns to his Pandora.
“M-4,” he says. His voice startles me. He hasn’t said a single word in the two days I’ve followed him. It’s amazing really, because I’ve got a novel’s worth of backlogged dialogue waiting in my head. My ears strain to figure out what’s going on, but I think I hear him tap the ground twice. It’s so dark, I lean forward to try to see what’s happening.
Then light springs forward from the lion’s mouth.
What the —? I gasp when I realize. The lion breathed fire. My skin buzzes from what I just witnessed. Maybe I’m hallucinating? But even from here, I can feel the warmth of the flames. Before I can comprehend how this guy’s Pandora — M-4 — created fire, the guy packs up his two bags, hooks them across his chest, and motions for M-4 to follow him. He’s leaving his campsite, I realize. He’s almost out of sight when I see him turn and look in my direction. His face is stone, his eyes hard as iron. He steals a glance toward the fire, then turns to go.
For several minutes, I wait, watching the fire. I’m afraid the fire will consume everything, but it doesn’t spread. The surrounding wood is too damp to catch, I guess. Everything here is always damp, including me. My clothes never dried from the rain two days ago. I slowly realize why the rash is spreading across my skin.
I haven’t been completely dry in days.
The air is too muggy here, and there’s hardly any sunlight below the canopy overhead. Once it rains, the moisture stays. I’m afraid if I don’t dry my clothes now, I may never get another chance. I wait a bit longer, then creep toward the fire. When I don’t see the guy or his Pandora, I sit down on the twig pallet and pull off my boots. My feet are wrinkled and swollen and covered in red patches. The rash has spread. I tug off my shirt and pants, and dry everything by the dancing flame. Then I curl into a ball, my Pandora pulled closed to my stomach, and I sleep.
When a small noise wakes me hours later, I try to block it out. I need sleep if I am to survive out here. But a strange cracking sound comes again, which I can’t ignore. Even stranger is the crawling sensation along my bare stomach.
My eyes snap open and I glance down.
My Pandora — it’s hatching.
CHAPTER TEN
I bolt upright and the egg rolls away from me. I reach for it, and freeze when a small black paw strikes out of the shell like it’s grasping for something.
I can’t help the tears that sting my eyes.
Covering my mouth, I watch as my Pandora pushes his way out of his egg, piece by piece. He’s alive. All this time, I feared he was never going to hatch, that the smell wafting from the egg was from decay. But it’s happening. He’s here.
My Pandora, my Madox, kicks the last piece of shell away. He’s covered in a thick, greenish slime, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. He stumbles onto his back, his four legs kicking the air like an overturned turtle’s. When he rights himself, he circles twice, his small pink tongue dangling from his mouth.
I study my Pandora: his black fur; his four, pawed feet; his pointy, alert ears. When his eyes find mine, I draw in a quick breath. Madox’s eyes are brilliant green, so bright, they seem to glow radioactive in the night. My Pandora looks, in every way, like a baby fox.
When Madox sees me, he takes two quick steps back.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. His ears perk at the sound of my voice, but he seems unsure. “You are KD-8. You’re … my Pandora.”
I keep waiting for some supernatural crap to happen, like for him to grow wings or speak. But I don’t hear a thing. I pull myself up, and the fox backs away farther. It’s enough to make me want to sob. I’ve waited so long for him to arrive, and now he’s afraid. Not that I blame him. I wonder if he knows what’s happening or why he’s here.
Racking my brain, I try to think of something to let him know it’s safe. That I want so badly for us to be allies. The only thing I can think of is my mother, so instead of speaking to Madox, I try humming. I start low and hum louder when he cocks his head and listens.
I laugh, seeing him with his head turned, but then I gather myself and keep humming. I decide to try singing. A few notes in, Madox rights his head and his green eyes widen. His mouth falls open and, I swear to God, he seems to smile.