Page 22 of Together We Rot

There’s an untouched first aid kit in the first drawer. I sweep off the thick layer of dust, propping it underneath my arm.

I guess this is it. I’m going to have to play medic and hope to God Elwood pays up in information.

“I don’t owe you anything, but fine. God. Just don’t die in this motel, got it? Here, Lord knows I can’t carry you. Help me out if you can. I’m going to bring you to my room... for now.” I lower myself beside him, offering a shoulder for him to lean on. He hesitantly takes it. His fingers are frigid against my skin. Almost corpse-like. We wobble and sway down the hall.

We make it to my room after a frustrating five minutes. The plaque reads 103, but I’ve taken a blade to the metal and carved my name beneath it: WIL.

I prop him to the side, kicking the door open with a grunt. The air in my room is heavy with must. The once-white walls have grayed, the paint peeling in odd spots. Burnt-red carpet clashing with olive-green drapes. A combination that is only festive this time of year and hideous the rest.

Luckily, I have a room with two twin-size beds. One for him to bleed over and the other for me to collapse on later and wonder what I’ve done. We shuffle awkwardly through all my junk. The broken stereo, a box full of useless old tapes, and other relics of the past.

I kick my trash off the spare bed, knocking it to the floor without the slightest concern for grace. Currently, I don’t have the mental capacity for shame.

“I can hear your heart,” Elwood comments out of nowhere as I get closer. Each word is breathless.

“Don’t say weird shit like that.” I sneer at him. “Shut up and let me fix you.”

The words feel too heavy on my tongue. It’s never been this way. I remember all the times I’d skinned my knee or bruised my knuckles in a fight. The reckless blood in me demanded I scale each tree to the highest branch. Elwood’s fingers were always so nimble after. He’d cluck and fuss over me, spinning gauze over my cuts and pressing Band-Aids to my cheek.

But that was then, and this is now.

I hope I don’t look as nervous as I feel. Lord help him if he needs stitches. It’s not like I can even google it with my prehistoric Tracfone: “WikiHow to save my estranged former friend from dying of hypothermia.”

This isn’t how I thought we’d meet again after the party. I thought our reunion would involve me backhanding him at our motel’s demolition. Cursing him out. Doing something. Not nursing him like he’s made of glass.

I walk over to the bathroom, swiping a towel off the rack. The water pours from the faucet, running ice-cold. I wait for it to heat up, hesitantly meeting my own reflection. My hair is slick with snow, my eyeliner smudged from tears. Black ink streaks down my cheeks. I smear myself clean.

Get a grip, Wil, he’s not going to die. A little cold and exhaustion won’t do him in. I shut the faucet off and head back over to him.

His chest rises and falls faintly. It’s enough to propel me forward. I run the towel over his cuts—there’s one against the base of his throat and another blooming out of the ripped patch of his knee.

Most of the scrapes are shallow, but there’s a couple nasty, deep ones. Specifically, one on his cheek. My fingers linger longer than necessary. I expect him to feel like a stranger, but the touch of him is unnervingly familiar. I’m not sure how long I’d stay there if I could, but I break in seconds the moment I hear him clear his throat. What the hell am I doing? I busy myself with rummaging around in the first aid kit. I’m not sure if antiseptic goes bad or not, but I don’t bother looking for an expiration date. I pop off the cap and he winces as it meets his wound.

I throw the towel to the floor along with the first aid kit. The cloth used to be an eggshell sort of white, but it’s smeared now with dirt and blood. I swallow. “Here. I’ll get you some clothes from my dad. They’ll be big on you, but at least... erm... Just stay alive until then, okay? Can you manage that?”

He looks over at the window. His face has gone unbelievably pale. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’ll be back in a couple minutes. Trust me, you still owe me an explanation for... all of this.” I wave at the air.

For a minute, it looks like he might try and fight me. Like the thought of being alone is too great a burden to bear. It doesn’t last. He clamps down on his lip, giving me the world’s weakest nod. “Okay.”

“I’ll be back,” I mutter, waving him off. “In the meantime, don’t look at or touch any of my shit.”

The door creaks shut behind me and I brace myself for what’s to come.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ELWOOD

The cold twists around my bones.

My ribs have been replaced with shards of ice and my breath pools out like frozen pine. I twist and turn under Wil’s blankets, but nothing will chase the feeling away. It grips greedy talons into my skin.

I wasn’t cold in the forest—not when I was running. I’ve never been athletic; my limbs always felt like twigs, fragile enough to snap in two, but I ran like hell. I ran as fast and as far as I could.

Stronger than the fear, stronger than the cold—a bitter seed blossoms in my gut. My parents were going to... what, exactly? Kill me? I know what I heard, but separated from the moment, it feels like fiction.

Only, I know it isn’t.

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