Erin Bowman - Stolen

She fished, and brought in a decent haul.

She ate with the town that evening, but tasted nothing.

As dusk fell, Bree found herself on the jetty, a bottle of Honeyrush clutched in her hand. Its flavor was nothing like honey now—not after fermenting in the sun for weeks on end—but after draining the majority of the bottle in under an hour, the Rush had certainly hit. Bree’s head buzzed. Her limbs felt distant.

Distant was good, though. Distraction was key.

She couldn’t be back at the hut. Not since the weight of Lock’s death had finally settled on Chelsea, rendering her a blubbering mess. Heath was hysterical, too, mostly on account of his leg. He was delirious—shouting about things he saw materializing in the room, only to collapse a moment later and lie unconscious until the next outburst.

Stupid herons. Stupid myths and magic and elusive hope.

Bree took another long drink, letting the Rush scorch her throat. Somewhere on the water, a loon wailed.

“Shut up!”

It didn’t. It called until another joined, and then the cries became a duet.

Bree drained the bottle, then threw it in the direction of the birds, wishing every last one of them dead. Loons, herons, gulls, it didn’t matter. She hated them all. Birds flew places she could not go. They reminded her of her father she’d never again see. They promised to save injured boys only to hoard away hope and deliver nothing but heartache.

Lying back on the jetty, Bree let the sky blanket her. The Rush raged in her core and behind her temples. She was a fish, swimming among the stars. She was an anchor, plunging. Her stomach coiled, and Bree rolled to her side, retching, emptying herself of the drink and even her dinner. Emptying herself of everything, it seemed, but the hurt.

BREE HAD A FIERCE HEADACHE the following morning, rivaled only by an even fiercer desire to never cry again. She was done being weak. She’d managed when her mother began drifting away, and even after she was gone, Bree had gotten by. She’d been strong on her own—lonely, upset, angry, but strong. There are people who drain you and people who raise you up. People who take and people who give. People who make you feel dressed in armor and people who actually provide it. Unless she was dealing with one of the latter, Bree decided she would never again expend her energies.

She climbed from bed, limbs arguing and headache a roar.

Heath’s skin was burning. Of course Mad Mia’s work had failed. Of course it had done nothing. Lucky with Lock and never lucky again. Bree had killed the heron for no reason, snuffed out a life just to spill blood.

She grabbed a rag from the bedside table and wiped the sweat from Heath’s brow. Summoning her courage, she lifted the sheets and unwrapped the soaked bandage on his leg. Dense and suffocating, the smell of rot hit her like a wave. Bree buried her face in the crook of her elbow and peered closer. Inflamed skin surrounded the wound, red and angry. The entry point was still oozing and festering. But worse still was the faint red discoloration on Heath’s skin that had spread from the wound and crawled up his thigh. It looked like a bad sunburn, and Bree wished it were that simple.

“It needs to be amputated,” Bree said, looking up at Chelsea. The woman sat on her bed with her knees curled into her chest, eyes vacant. “The blood poisoning.” Bree pointed at the red trail on Heath’s leg. “We need to act before it spreads farther. Before it’s too late.”

Chelsea’s gaze remained on Lock’s empty bed.

“Chelsea! You can’t just disappear. You can’t leave when he needs you.”

“He’s dead,” she whispered. “Gone.”

“Lock is, but not Heath. Not yet.”

Nothing.

“I’m getting Sparrow.”

“He won’t survive an amputation. He’s already so weak.”

“We still have to try.”

“Like you tried with the heron’s blood?” Chelsea lay back down on the bed. “I’ve already lost one son, Bree. Don’t make me lose another.”

“You will if you do nothing. Chelsea? Chelsea!” Bree scrambled around the beds and grabbed the woman by the front of her cotton shift, yanking her upright. “He can lose his leg or lose his life. If you honestly think those are equal losses you’re the most worthless mother this island’s seen, and I thought mine won that title years ago.”

“Don’t you dare judge me!” The woman knocked Bree aside, a fury on her face so animated Bree submitted without a fight. “Heath’s sick every few weeks. He’ll likely be blind by the end of the year if his vision keeps deteriorating. I’m trying to be merciful . I’m trying to spare him pain. His life already has such little quality. What will his future hold if you take his leg, too?”

“He won’t have a future to worry about if we do nothing!”

Chelsea crawled over Lock’s bed and into Heath’s. She wrapped her son in her arms and pressed her mouth in his hair.

“I’m getting Sparrow,” Bree announced again.

Chelsea said nothing, and to Bree, it was as good as consent. Maybe Saltwater broke everyone in time. It took all their boys and broke all their women. They grew resigned, like Chelsea, or desperate to fly, like Bree’s mother. Or maybe that was just life, water beating against a stone until it succumbs to smooth edges. But Bree wouldn’t be broken, or worn down, or shaped any way but how she wished. She’d made a promise. To Lock. To Heath. She’d right this.

She pushed off the bed, and went to find Sparrow.

The surgery was horrible. Bree regretted the decision as soon as it began.

Heath, who had been unconscious all morning, was now screaming with such fervor it seemed impossible that death had been near claiming him. He’d been secured to the bed, and a wooden spoon was in his mouth to protect against biting his own tongue, but he was thrashing like a trapped animal. The Honeyrush they’d given him could only numb so much pain. Chelsea, trying to drown her fears with that same bottle of Rush, was a worthless, sobbing mess at the main table.

And so it was just Bree and Ness, of all people, restraining Heath while Sparrow and Cricket tended to his leg. First with knives, then a saw meant for trees, and finally a needle. Sparrow secured a flap of skin she hadn’t completely severed over Heath’s now much shorter leg. They’d taken it from midthigh down. The bed was steeped in blood.

“He’s facing the same odds all over again,” Sparrow said as she stowed away the tools. “If it heals clean—if it doesn’t get infected—he might make it.”

They moved Heath, unconscious but alive, onto Lock’s bed.

“I can clean the sheets,” Ness offered, pointing at the blood-soaked bedding. “And ask around on how long it might be until a new mattress can be made.”

“They don’t need to be replaced,” Bree said. “He can have Lock’s.”

“Right” was all Ness said, but there were many words passing over her features.

Together, the girls dragged the ruined sheets and mattress outside, where they burned them beneath a noon sun. Bree and Ness stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the smoke billow.

“Thank you for helping,” Bree said when she found the courage. “Chelsea’s sort of out to sea, and I don’t think I could have held Heath alone.”

Sparrow had invited—no, requested—Ness join when they’d crossed paths on the way to the hut. It was like the healer could foresee that Chelsea would be useless during the surgery.

“Sure,” Ness said, nodding. A breeze stirred, and on it, Mad Mia’s chants reached their ears. “Think she’ll get us any?” Ness glanced up at the cloudless sky.

“Any rain?” Bree said. “If it comes, it won’t be because of her dances.”