After the End

30 MILES

“SO TELL ME, WHAT’S THE LAST READING OR CONJURING or whatever that you successfully did?” I take a bite of the crispy potato that I, yes I, Miles Blackwell, cooked wrapped in aluminum foil in the campfire. In fact, I cooked tonight’s whole meal.

All right, so the first can of beef stew exploded. How was I supposed to know you can’t cook food in the can? Luckily, we had a few backups, so I opened them and heated them up in a pan.

“Why does it matter?” Juneau asks, blowing on the piece of steaming beef speared on her fork. “You won’t believe a word of it anyway.”

“True,” I respond, holding my spoon up for emphasis. “However, in debate team, I was often tapped to play devil’s advocate. So I don’t mind suspending disbelief if it’s going to, one, get you out of your lethal mood and, two, let us leave this creepy waterfront. It’s starting to remind me of the Jason-infested lake in Friday the 13th.” I glance over the fire to see Juneau’s familiar expression of incomprehension, and my heart falls. “Why do I even try with the cultural references?” I moan.

“I don’t know, why do you?” she snaps. And then says, “Reading Poe’s emotions in the car yesterday.”

“That was the last time you felt like you read?” I clarify, making an effort to keep up with her conversation hopping.

“Yes, although it took me a long time to connect,” she states. “I’m used to it being immediate.”

“Then when was the last time it was immediate?” I ask.

“When I Read the fire at Mount Rainier.”

“Okay,” I say. “So what’s happened between then and now?”

She looks at me blankly and shakes her head.

I think. “How about Whit?” I ask. “When the bird didn’t come back to him, do you think he could have blocked you from connecting to the Yara?” I try my best not to let a sarcastic inflection creep into my words. If she thinks I’m making fun of her, she’ll clam right up and this conversation will be over. Along with my effort to soften her up so that we can leave.

She sets her bowl on the ground and shakes her head pensively. “That would be like blocking me from breathing the air around me. ‘No one can come between human beings and the Yara except the disbelief of humans themselves.’ That’s a direct quote from Whit,” I say.

I’m feeling sorry for her again. She really believes this crap. I have an overwhelming urge to hold her hand and tell her that it’s okay. That she’s been brainwashed, and the longer she’s away from the hippie cult the more normal she’ll get.

“Well then, maybe you’re blocking your own connection to the Yara,” I offer, feeling slightly proud of myself for making sense out of her cult gibberish. “Maybe now that you’re away from the influence of Whit and your dad, you’re beginning to doubt the things they taught you. Which would totally make sense, seeing that they lied about World War III and all.” I am only trying to draw logical conclusions from her completely illogical beliefs, but she looks like I just slapped her.

“Or maybe it’s not that at all,” I offer weakly. “Maybe the farther you get from your land, the less of a connection with the Yara you have?”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head in a how-could-you-possibly-know-anything-about-it gesture. “The Yara isn’t just in Alaska. It’s everywhere.”

She stands and, wrapping her arms around her waist, paces slowly back and forth beside the fire. “What you said about doubting,” she says finally. “That does make sense. It was after I found out that Whit was working with the people who abducted my clan that my Reading was affected. His blatant spying on me confirmed my suspicions of him… if I needed further confirmation.” She rubs her fingers distractedly across her forehead. “I guess I can pin it to that instant that I definitely lost all trust in him. And yes, I suppose I’m questioning what he taught me as well.”

“Did they have children’s books in your commune?” I ask. Juneau looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “I swear this is relevant,” I promise.

“Yes, we had a small collection of children’s books.”

“Did you have Peter Pan?” I ask.

She nods and furrows her brow, trying to guess what I’m getting at.

“What you’re saying is kind of like Wendy and her brothers flying with fairy dust. They had to believe it or they couldn’t fly.”

She nods pensively but still has that hurt look on her face. “You might be right,” she admits. She sighs loudly and turns to head for the woods. Looking back at me, she says, “Thanks for dinner. I’m going to go for a walk and think about things.” The bird sees her going and flaps over to land on her shoulder like a freaking trained monkey.

As for me, I sit watching the fire and think about how she seems like a really nice person. How I’m actually starting to like her. Why else would I have put off calling Dad whenever I’ve had access to a phone? Because, for once, I feel like I’m enjoying myself. Having fun.

It’s just sad how messed up Juneau was raised. Like a cult member. Totally brainwashed. Totally delusional. It almost makes me want to help her. If saving my own skin wasn’t of utmost importance, I would be tempted to try.