“One person alone is even more dangerous,” Erika objects.
“One person with most of the water,” Mikaela clarifies. “Enough to make it there and back. The rest of us can ration even more carefully for a day or two.”
More debate follows, but eventually, reluctantly, we come to a consensus of sorts. One person will go, leaving at first light tomorrow when it’s coolest. They’ll take a three day’s worth of water and an emergency blanket that will double as a signal flag.
“So who goes?” Pam asks what we’re all thinking.
Silence falls over the group.
“I’ll go,” I volunteer, surprising myself. “It was my idea.”
“No. Way.” Jacqui is immediately by my side, brows diving to her nose. “I’m not letting you—”
“We should draw for it,” Erika interrupts. “That’s the only fair way.”
After some discussion, we agree. Those too injured to make the journey are exempt. Everyone else’s name goes into the selection.
We have no straws to draw, no slips of paper to pull from a hat. Instead, Erika collects one used hydration packet and cuts it into strips of different lengths, keeping them hidden in her hand.
“Shortest straw goes,” she says.
One by one, we step forward and select. Jacqui pulls a long one and visibly relaxes. Mikaela’s is even longer. Hannah, Pam, Tina and all the other women—all draw straws longer than half the original length.
When my turn comes, I reach out with steady fingers and select my straw.
It’s barely half an inch long.
“Shit,” Jacqui breathes.
I stare at the tiny piece of plastic in my palm, my heart sinking to my feet even as a strange calm settles over me.
“No,” Jacqui shakes her head vehemently. “No, this is bullshit. I’m going instead.”
“That’s not how it works,” Erika says gently, but her voice is firm.
“We all agreed to the draw,” Mikaela adds.
“It’s okay, Jaqs,” I say, closing my fingers around the straw. “I’ll be fine.”
But I’m sure Jacqui isn’t convinced. I’m not convinced. But someone has to go search for help, we all know that. Our water won’t last forever, and we have injured people who need real medical care. Still, knowing all that doesn’t make it any easier to be the one who drew the short straw.
Jacqui grabs my arm, her fingers digging in. “You don’t have to do this. We can draw again—”
“And what if I draw it again?” I meet her eyes. “What if someone else does? We’d just be back here, having the same argument.”
“Then we all go together!”
My throat tightens. My heart hurts. I don’t want to go. But I have to. I shake my head. “You know we can’t do that. We can’t carry the injured ones, and the bus is the only shelter we can see for miles.”
“Then I’ll come with you—”
“No.”
Jacqui looks stunned for a moment. Maybe it’s my tone of voice. I rarely speak to her like this. As if my word is final. But if I don’t know anything, I know I can’t let her come with me.
I’m the reason she’s on this survival “job” in the first place. If anything happens out there…I’d never forgive myself. I’ve already lost my mother…I can’t…
“No.” I say again, softer this time. The lump in my throat feels jagged as I swallow hard, watching the tears rise in Jacqui’s eyes.
She shrugs me off and turns away, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, and I know she’s fighting the urge to let those tears fall.
The other women have fallen silent, watching our exchange. I can see the relief in some of their faces—relief that it wasn’t them who drew the short straw. Others look guilty, torn between volunteering to take my place and staying quiet.
Erika steps forward. “We’ll take care of your sister, Justine. I promise.”
I nod, grateful for her words even as Jacqui keeps her back turned to me.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. I’ll take three hydration packets, three emergency rations, and a makeshift sun shield fashioned from the reflective emergency blanket. Alex gives me strict instructions about preventing heatstroke.
As night falls and the others settle in to sleep, I can’t. Wrapping the sun-shield/emergency blanket over my shoulders, I crouch in the sand just outside the entrance to the bus. Someone exits behind me and I know it’s her even before she speaks. I’ll always recognize my sister.
“This is crazy,” she whispers, settling beside me. “You don’t have to do this.”
“We drew straws,” I remind her. “And someone has to go.”
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“We’ve been over this. Two people means twice the water needed.”
She falls silent, and in the dim light filtering through the tear in the transport, I can see tears shimmering in her eyes.
“Hey,” I bump her shoulder with mine. “Remember when we got lost hiking in the San Juan Mountains? You freaked out, but we found our way back before they even organized a search party.”
“That was different. We were sixteen, and there were trail markers.”
“Still. I’ve always had a good sense of direction.” It’s a weak joke, but she manages a small smile.
“Just…” She swallows hard. “Just be careful, okay?”
“I promise.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Morning comes too quickly. As the first hints of light appear on the horizon, I stand outside the transport, equipped with my meager supplies.
“Keep the beacon active,” I remind Erika. “If rescue comes while I’m gone…”
“We’ll send them after you immediately,” she promises.
Alex gives me a final once-over. “Remember, walk only during the coolest parts of the day. Find shade during peak heat, even if it means making less progress.”
“I’ve got it.” I nod.
“The formations look like they’re about five miles out,” Mikaela says, studying the horizon. “Should be able to make it there by tomorrow morning if you pace yourself.”
“Here.” Tina hands me a small object she’s extracted from one of the cases—a compass-like device with Xyma markings. “It seems to point consistently in one direction. Might help you keep your bearings.”
Everyone has advice, last-minute suggestions, and words of encouragement. Everyone except Jacqui, who stands slightly apart. When my eyes land on her, that lump in my throat pulses. It’s the same mask she wore during Mom’s funeral. The one that reveals nothing, even when she didn’t speak for months.
This is killing her. And I know it.
If she’d been the one to draw the short straw, I’d have felt the same way. Heck, I’d have taken her place instead.
Finally, it’s time to go. I adjust my makeshift head covering, check my supplies one last time, and face the direction of the stone pillars.
“I’ll be back in two days.” I say it with more confidence than I feel. “Three at most.”
Jacqui finally steps forward, and pulls me into a fierce hug. “You better be, or I swear to God, Justine…”
I pull away, give her a smile that I hope looks brave, and turn toward the desert. The bastard sun is just beginning to rise, casting the bus’s long shadow across the sand. The rock formations stand silhouetted against the lightening sky, seeming both impossibly far and yet so close.
With a deep breath, I take my first step away from the safety of the transport.
I don’t look back. I can’t. If I see Jacqui’s face again, I might lose my nerve. So I press on, shoulders straight, like I’m braver than I feel. I’m heading out to find some hope, because God knows we need it. There’s nothing to worry about. All these days in the desert and we haven’t seen one living thing. No predators. Nothing to suggest we’re in danger. I’ll be fine.