Morgan Rice: Arena One: Slaverunners

I grab a bottle of champagne, twist off the wire, and pop the cork. It goes flying through the air, overboard, and into the river. Everyone turns at the sound and sees me standing there, holding the bottle as foam sprays out the top and over my hand. It is icy cold, but I don’t care. I put it to my lips, and take a swig. It goes right to my head.

I know I shouldn’t, but after everything they’ve been through, I offer it to Bree and Rose; they each take a small sip, giggling. I then reach over and hand it to Ben, and he takes several swigs without stopping. He hands it back to me, but still won’t look at me. He keeps his eyes fixed somewhere on the water. I wonder if he is ashamed to look at me, ashamed for having not saved his brother.

I study him as he looks out over the water. His eyes are red, and I can see he’s been crying. He reaches up and rubs one of them, wiping away a tear. I can hardly imagine what he’s been through.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

He shakes his head no.

I understand. If it were me, I wouldn’t want talk about it either. He looks like he wants space, and I don’t want to press him.

When he’s ready , I think to myself.

I climb back to the front of the boat, sit in the passenger seat, and pass the bottle over to Logan. He takes a Twizzler out of his mouth, grabs the bottle, takes a long swig, then hands it back to me, never taking his eyes off the water. He then inserts another Twizzler into his mouth, chewing slowly.

I sit there in the plush leather passenger seat and lean back. We drive for a few minutes in silence, the only sound that of the whining engine. Finally, Logan turns to me.

“So, where to?” he asks.

I stare out at the water, thinking. I think about what Logan said before, about that perfect town, somewhere in Canada. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel hope. I wonder if maybe he’s right, if maybe there could be some place left in the world that isn’t ruined. I wonder if maybe it’s good to dream.

I turn to him.

“I’m thinking Canada,” I say.

He looks at me and his eyes open wide in surprise. He must realize what I’m really saying: Maybe you are right.

Slowly, he breaks into a smile, and I can’t help smiling back.

He reaches down and leans on the throttle, and I feel the boat accelerate just a bit.

“Canada it is,” he says.

I lean further back, starting to relax for the first time. For some reason, I think of Dad. I wonder if he’s up there, looking down on us. If he is, would he be proud? I feel that he would. I can almost hear his voice: Brooke, you’re in charge now. Do whatever you have to to keep them alive. Don’t rest on your heels, soldier.

It will be a long road ahead of us. Soon, we’ll run out of fuel. Then out of food. It will get dark, colder. The Hudson will turn to ice, and we’ll have to find shelter. The slaverunners will be after us, and if we don’t keep moving, they’ll find us.

But I can worry about all of this later. For once in my life, I can just sit back and enjoy right now . The present moment. For the first time in my life, I finally realize that that is what really matters. Not later today. But right now.

I lean back in the plush leather seat and take another swig of champagne, and it goes right to my head. I haven’t had a decent meal in days, and I know I shouldn’t drink. But right now, I don’t care. We’re cruising up the Hudson, it’s a sunny, beautiful morning, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, everything is good in the world. I look over and, surprisingly, see a patch of bright purple flowers, somehow surviving, sticking up in the snow. They are the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen, glowing in the sunlight. I wonder how they can even be real.

If these can survive , I think to myself, so can we .

I close my eyes and feel the salty air on my face. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I think: this feels good. It feels really good.