The Winged [HIATUS]

Chapter Nineteen

Logan, I groan, can we take that break now?

You can’t hold on for fifteen more minutes?

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the cacophony of madness pulsating inside my cranium. No. I’ll burst into flames.

Whatever, blondie. She dips her left wing and descends in a lazy spiral as she surveys the land. We’re in Indiana. If we fly in two-hour bursts and take half-hour breaks, we should reach the west edge of Illinois by morning.

Tempest and I angle our wings and glide after her. You know this, how? Tempest questions.

Oh, you know… I get around. She tucks her feathers back and dives straight into a patch of trees in the center of a small field. We stoop and follow suit, the air howling past our ears like a wild thing. My hood flies back, granting the cold an opportunity to seep past my sopping mop of hair and chill my scalp. I bite down to keep my teeth from chattering.

There is a small clearing amid the trees where we land and make our camp. Tempest and I unroll the sleeping bags, arranging them in a neat little triangle at the center of the defoliated area. Logan snaps branches off the trees and makes a pile in the middle. I produce a lighter and set the sprigs ablaze.

Logan flops down on her mat, a granola bar dangling haphazardly from her mouth. “Eat up,” she commands. Sensing Tempest’s unspoken question, she adds, “And don’t worry about Blackwings seeing the smoke; I made it invisible, like us.”

I lie on my back and watch the flames lick the stars, mowing through three packets of Pop-Tarts while pondering the infinite possibilities of the universe. I wonder about the colony, the Blackwings, my parents. I wonder if I’ll ever be safe again. I wonder if I’ll die.

I wonder about that a lot.

I eventually roll over onto my stomach and stare at Tempest. She chews on a banana and snuggles under the covers, reading her book by firelight. “Is that any good?” I ask.

“What?” she replies, not looking up. “The banana or Gatsby?”

“Gatsby.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’s good.” She absently discards the banana peel and bites into a candy bar.

“Where did you get it?”

“Logan had it sitting out on the kitchen table,” Tempest says, turning the page. “She said I could take it with me when the time came for us to leave.”

“Hm.” I examine Logan out of the corner of my eye, stumped as to why she would own such a book. She never really struck me as the reading type.

Logan feels my gaze and splays out on her bedroll. “My mom always said it was her favorite. I felt obligated to at least check it out.”

Tempest’s eyebrows hitch. “And why exactly are there library stamps all over it?”

“Take a guess.”

“You stole a book from the library?!” I exclaim.

“That’s the gist of it, yes.”

Tempest rolls her eyes. “My parents would never approve of me hanging out with you.”

“Well, you can tell your parents that I don’t give a flying fu-”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I interject, glaring in Logan’s general direction. She flashes me an impish grin before rolling over on her side and facing away from us. “So… am I the only person here who hasn’t read The Great Gatsby?”