Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You)

My voice is carefully even.
“He was out of the car before we’d even stopped moving. I don’t know how he was strong enough to rip that door away from you.”
“I’m a member of the team. Of course he’d try to help me.” I keep my head bent, my eyes on his cut. It starts to bleed again, a slow, steady trickle, and I press the cloth into it.
“I don’t think that’s all it is.”
I stay quiet.
“You two have a history?”
He says it like a statement instead of a question, and again, I do not answer. His wound is clean now, and I wrap a new piece of cloth around it, tying the ends together tightly.
“How is it possible? We were in the same training group. When could you have met him?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I gather the bloody, alcohol-soaked rags and move to turn away, but Tim reaches out, his hand circling my wrist.
“You can trust me, you know.” His eyes look almost as green as mine, soft in the morning light that creeps in through the cracks in the walls. “You don’t have to hide from me.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Then answer one question.”
The dust from the barn dances in the air between us. I don’t respond, but I don’t pull away from him either.
“Were you brainwashed?”
I shake my head, so slightly I barely move, but I know he sees it when his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“You remember your family, don’t you? I’m not the only one?”
“I . . . was close to my grandfather. He helped raise me.” Now I do pull away, holding the dirty rags close to my chest.
“Where is he now? Back in your own time?”
I shrug, trying not to think about the floor of that cell, my grandfather rocking back and forth, lost and alone.
“I’m sorry, Seven—” He makes a scoffing noise. “I feel ridiculous calling you by a number. Will you tell me your name?”
I open my mouth, but then slowly shut it again. In the hotel room when he first said his name, I felt a rush of belonging, of understanding. But now our situation is even more hopeless, and knowing his name seems pointless. I am Lydia, but whether I like it or not, I’m also Seventeen. If we make it through these woods, if we can evade the Secret Service and not get killed or captured, I still have years and years of working for the Montauk Project ahead of me. I cannot even try to escape, because they’ll kill my grandfather if I do. Will telling Tim my name only hurt me in the long run? Do I even want to remember that I’m still Lydia, when my future as Seventeen is laid bare in front of me, bleak and endless?
I turn my face from his. “We should get back to the others. Can you carry these clothes?”
Tim sighs but doesn’t protest as he helps me grab what supplies we can find. In silence, we walk back out into the main part of the barn. Twenty-two is speaking to Wes urgently, but when she sees us she stops abruptly. Wes has his arms crossed and he looks up as we approach. I cannot read the expression on his face.
I dump the clothes at their feet. “I don’t know if it will fit, but at least it’s better than what we have on now.”
Wes kneels, sifting through the pile. He hands me a bundle, then Twenty-two. She sets it on one of the wooden posts and reaches for the hem of her dress. Wes turns his back but Tim stares directly at her as she yanks the torn fabric up over her head. She is wearing underwear, a scrap of silk, but no bra, and I widen my eyes at Tim until he looks away, coughing, his face burning red.
Her casual nudity is typical of the recruits—as though their bodies have no meaning beyond a tool for the Project. I am still more modest, and while Tim and Wes are turned away I quickly pull on a black T-shirt and jeans several sizes too big.
The pants are too small for Tim, but he yanks on one of the T-shirts, the old cotton stretching across his biceps, tight on his abs. I do not look away when he changes, and I’m surprised at how muscular he is, like a bodybuilder with his tapered waist and thick chest. There are freckles on his shoulder that seem out of place on his stocky frame. Wes catches me looking, his eyes narrowed, and I glance away.
When Wes changes into the rough work gear I whip around until I’m facing the wall. But Twenty-two just stares at him, taking in his long, lean form, so different from Tim’s. I clench my hands together to keep myself from grabbing her shoulder, from forcing her eyes away. I shouldn’t care, I tell myself. Wes and I are nothing now.
“There’s some food,” I say when everyone is dressed. “Not much, but a few old cans of beans.”
“We can eat one now, save the rest for later,” Tim adds.
Twenty-two looks at Wes and he shakes his head. She moves two fingers in a slight waving motion, and before I can process what is happening, she lunges forward. My body rocks backward as she locks her arm around my neck, a knife—she must have found it somewhere in the barn—pressed to my throat. I gasp, twisting and trying to find leverage, but she just tightens her hold. The blade pushes forward and I know that she’s going to kill me, but then she sees that Wes has not moved and her arm stills.
“What the hell?” Tim jerks forward. Twenty-two digs in the knife and I flinch.
“Let her go.” Wes moves one leg in front of the other as though he is getting ready to spring.
“What are you doing?” Twenty-two demands. “You’re supposed to grab him.”
Tim sinks into a crouch, his arms rising, but Wes barely glances at him. “I said we