Page 22 of Fable for the End of the World

It’s not just that he wants to get as big a head start as possible. He’s uncomfortable with the whole situation. He doesn’t trust the Wesselses’ generosity; help never comes without strings attached. And we all know the danger of being in debt.

There’s also the fact that we’re being very blatantly watched. A small crowd has gathered around the Wesselses’ yard, craning their necks over the fence. Lucky for them it’s not electrified. I canpick out a few faces—including, to my shock, Floris Dekker’s. This must be the first time he’s left his house in weeks. In any other circumstance, he’d probably be harassed and heckled back inside. But no one is thinking about Sanne anymore. The voyeuristic anticipation of a new Gauntlet eclipses everything else.

Floris’s eyes betray no empathy, even after what I did for him. In fact, there’s a subtle shimmer of glee in his stare. He’s just here for the show. And in just a few hours, the show will be live streamed to an audience of millions.

I don’t want to look at the crowd, and I figure it’s best to try to get in at least one more test ride before we go, anyway. I walk back over to Jacob, my boots sinking slightly into the mud with each step. It’s a warm morning for the season and his T-shirt sticks to his skin, slightly translucent with sweat, so I can see the muscles in his back. The sight of those muscles takes me a little by surprise. I mostly think of him as the kid I played video games with in his living room—the kid who didn’t mope when he lost and never gloated when he won—but he’s grown up. So have I.

“Hey,” I say. Jacob turns. “I don’t really know how to say thank you. For all of this.”

Jacob smiles, showing the dimples in his cheeks. “It’s nothing, really. Just don’t total my dad’s car.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Luka is giving me an impatient glare, so maybe it’s better to just get out of here as soon as possible. But before I can turn away, Jacob grabs my wrist.

“Listen, Inesa,” he says softly. “When you come back, I wantthings to be... different.”

“Different how?” He’s looking at me so intently that my skin prickles.

Abruptly, he leans forward and kisses me. I’m so shocked I can’t react—I don’t even knowhowto react. It’s quick, over before I have enough time to be embarrassed that I’m not sure what to do with my lips. Jacob pulls away, cheeks flushed.

Neither of us says a word. My mouth feels completely dry. Luckily, he speaks first.

“I’m moving to the City,” he says. “I want you to come, too.”

And then I really don’t know what to say. Luka approaches us and Jacob steps away, rubbing the back of his neck. My cheeks are blazing. Now I’m mostly just embarrassed that Luka saw what happened. The whole situation seems more transactional than it did before.

“We’ll pay you back for everything,” Luka says tersely, as if reading my mind.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Jacob. His face is still faintly pink. “Just focus on making it out the other side. It’s just thirteen days.”

Thirteen days. An unlucky number. I can’t help but feel Caerus did that on purpose. Although I’m sure they beta tested and focus grouped the time limit to make sure it was long enough to keep people engaged but not so long that they lost interest. Everything about the Gauntlet is precisely, shrewdly arranged. I feel nauseous again, for a whole host of new reasons.

“I’ll try,” I say uneasily.

It’s time. I climb into the car and buckle my seat belt. Lukagets into the passenger side and rests his hunting rifle between his knees. Neither of us speak as I carefully put the car into drive and inch out of the Wesselses’ yard. From the porch, Dr. Wessels waves, but it’s a stiff, self-conscious motion. His lips are pressed into a thin line.

The crowd backs up as we drive through the gate, parting to let us onto the road. Faces blur past. Neighbors and clients and people I’ve watched grow from toddlers to lanky preteens, adults to old-timers. With each face I pass, I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll ever see them. I know they’re all wondering the same thing.

“Wait!”

I slam down on the brake pedal and the car shudders to a halt.

It’s Mrs. Prinslew, pushing her way through the crowd. The sea of bodies parts for her, but by the time she reaches us, there’s a dew of sweat on her brow. Or maybe it’s rain. The sky has started sprinkling and I barely even noticed.

She stops at the driver’s-side door and looks up at me, her eyes glazed with unshed tears. Wordlessly, she holds out a satchel. Her arms tremble as she lifts it, and when I take it from her, I’m shocked by its heaviness. Peering inside, I see dozens of cans. They’re unlabeled, like all black-market goods, but she’s written their contents on the side in black marker: peaches, carrots, cream of mushroom soup. Spaghetti, spinach, Spam.

Abruptly my throat clogs. It’s the equivalent of a hundred credits, at least. I look down at Mrs. Prinslew’s face, open and waiting, but I’m too stunned to speak.

“For you,” she says quietly.

No one has ever given me a gift before. Offered me something without the expectation of repayment. She must read my befuddled expression, because she goes on. “It’s a shame we’ve started believing that credits are worth more than a life.”

Regret and grief pile down on me. I remember how I poled past her as she piled sandbags on her porch. I could have—shouldhave—stopped to help. I thought I’d been doing her a kindness, by moving along without a word. Who would want to be in more debt?

All I can manage is a nod. My feelings are so tangled up inside me. The wordsthank youfeel as foreign to me as Damish. I wonder what the Damish word forthank youis. They must have one. They’re not afraid of owing.

Mrs. Prinslew steps back, and slowly I press down on the gas, letting the car roll forward, through the gate. Luka takes the bag of cans off my lap in silence and chucks it into the back seat. His mouth twitches, and I can tell he’s thinking that this is another debt we can’t afford. He’s probably wishing he could castigate me for not refusing the gift. But he does me the courtesy of keeping quiet.

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