Till It and Keep It

Till It and Keep It Carrie R. Moore (bio) In the beginning, there was her sister's breathing. Which meant neither of them had died. It was faint, a slip of sound in the truck's stillness. But it reached into the front seats and nudged Brie awake. She lay over the console, an ache in her ribs, sweat on her eyelids. Against her wrist, morning light fell in a thin orange beam. So she could see colors again, which meant the illness was fading. She'd been smart to pull off the road—sometimes, rest was all you needed. "Harper, " she said, "wake up. We're still a long ways out. " Her sister's breathing quieted. Brie felt behind her, arms weak, neck too stiff to turn. If she could just touch Harper, surely she'd wake, too? This was hardly the worst they'd been through—unlucky as they were, born into prolonged summers and floods rushing deep into the coast and dwindling federal relief. There was the land they'd worked in Low America for years, the trees more branch than fruit. The miles of brown fields after they'd fled Randall's farm and the masses of white tents clustered outside silver cities and along End Page 164 freeway exits. On more than one occasion, thin-hipped walking men eyed their truck as it sped past, but who knew if they carried viruses or meant them harm: any kindness had to be carefully doled out. When the sisters had long passed the health inspection at the Arkansas line, they'd stood in a shallow creek while Brie shaved Harper's deep honey curls. The green city lights wavering in the distance made Harper's hair shudder on the water's surface. "I don't care what it looks like, " Harper had said, gripping Brie's elbow. "Just so I don't feel his hands in it. " "I got you, " Brie murmured, tying a wrap, red as a caul, over her handiwork. "It'll look good. " She finished just before the outage drowned them in darkness. In the truck, Brie finally twisted to glimpse Harper in the space between the passenger seat and door. The wrap fell over her sister's cheek, flattened against the backseat. Who knew anymore, how a virus would go. Some filled your lungs with fluid and made your muscles go liquid for weeks; others made your skin ache even in moonlight. This one had made Harper break out in hives once they were well into Tennessee, then start asking why the sun looked brown as the trees. As she drove, Brie said, "Just hang on. We'll stop soon, " and passed her sister a silver canister of tea leaves to chew. But whatever was ailing Harper hit Brie too. As the hot pressure spread through her skull, she eased off the road, into woods blurry as gray flames. She cussed. Then prayed: Lord, cover us. It was different from her usual prayer: Lord, let us get the chance to taste something green. Brie repeated her sister's name. They hadn't survived so much for her to lose Harper now. Then she saw the orange and green shapes just outside the window. The orange globes, dimpled and striped pink. The green, a sharp tip. It took her a minute to recognize them, long as it had been since she'd seen such fruit. End Page 165 "Harper, " she said. "There's peaches out there. " As if he'd heard, a man appeared at the window, the peaches vanishing behind his brown face. He opened the door, cool air rushing in. Then he lifted her against him, and her whole body split with pain. Her neck couldn't hold her head, which tipped over his arm. "God almighty, " he said. "There's two of you. " She sank her teeth into his shoulder. Held tight until she felt his skin break. He cussed. She felt him grip her thighs, trying not to drop her. Then his grip was gone, and so was everything else. ________ She woke in a wooden shed that smelled of grass and sweat. In the bed beside her, Harper. . .