A World Apart

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Stella

I can't believe we're almost there.

Even though the buildings and trees on either side of us blend together and whiz by in a blur, the anticipation makes it feel like we're wading through tar, moving at the speed of a geriatric patient. Despite how fast we're driving time seems to stand still, as if we're stuck in an animated loading screen of a video game.

Restlessness overtakes me, and I find myself becoming a volatile ball of barely restrained energy. Even though I'm sitting on the floor of a truck, I feel like I'm on the edge of my seat, waiting for the next disaster to strike. But for the time being everything is calm.

So what happens if no more barriers arise? We make it to the prison undisturbed. Will Max be there? Will the group have moved on since the last time Ava spoke to them? Will they all be dead? It's a trail of thought I don't like following, the consequences that this all could have been for nothing.

To distract myself I tune in to the light-hearted banter Logan and Ava throw at each other from the front seat. They seem to be getting along well enough, almost chummy even. It doesn't take much listening to deduce that neither of them are fully sober. Logan confirms it when he mentions how the alcohol must be numbing the pain of his arm, which he thinks might be broken or at least badly sprained.

Part of me wants to cut in and reprimand the both of them for getting drunk at the most inappropriate time possible, but I decide to let it go. Maybe if things didn't work out as well as they did I would be on their cases. But as things stand, I don't even bother sticking Ava with a DUI. Her inebriated driving skills are probably better than my complete lack of anyway.

Or maybe I'm just too tired to really care about their drinking habits. As long as it doesn't end up getting me killed, or have Logan passed out in a bar cellar again, they can poison themselves as much as they like, whenever they see fit. I've never had an interest in it myself, but I've heard it's meant to help with nerves. If that's true then I don't know if I'd be so quick to refuse a shot if I was offered one now.

My anxiety grows and festers with every mile of progress we make down this road. I'm such a mess that I can't even tell what I'm most nervous about. Finding Max, or not finding him at all. Then there's the chance of finding him dead. It all brings on such a whirlwind of sick emotions that I bury my face in my hands to try and hide from them, even press my palms against my eye sockets in an attempt to squeeze them away.

When it begins to hurt, even the pain proving a poor distraction, I lift my head up and search for a new diversion. Logan and Ava's tipsy ramblings failed to keep any focus, so I look to Gale, who's sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest, scribbling in a notebook he balances against his knees. What did he say when we were climbing the tower? That he was trying to track the days?

"How's the journaling going?" I ask, hoping it's enough of a conversation starter to carry us until the prison.

Gale looks up at me. "Oh, um, I'm a-almost back on track, just need to account for a few more days a-and then I think I'll be able to tell what the date is today."

That's right, he isn't writing about the days, he's counting them. His focus returns to the book, scratching several more lines into the paper. He's fixated on it almost to a weird extent, trying to figure out the month and day. I don't understand why he's bothering to in the first place. It's not like figuring out we're sitting on a Tuesday or a Sunday will make a world of difference.

Structure, was his explanation last time I asked. In a world that's discarded time though, I hardly see how knowing the date will add any structure to it. Not like we have any appointments to make.