Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Go! Get outta here! You don’t wanna see this!” Art shouts. 

The young boys on the bikes stare, enraptured, at the act unfolding before them, ignoring Art’s pleas. Harkness is crawling now, sobbing as he fails to pull himself up. Curiosity riddles the faces of the two boys. Their heads tilt slightly: intrigue. They don’t look away. Stebbins can hear the gun cock. 

“Get the fuck out of here!” Collie shouts, swinging his arms wildly. Maybe it's that which does it, Collie’s grizzly tone and his sureness — the boys blinked and saw authority. They turn tail and run, guarding their innocence for a few years more. Third and final warning, Number 49. 

“I want to go home,” Harkness cries. Stebbins offers him the humanity in looking away, flinching as the guns ring out. He neglects to confront whether this is fair, if Harkness and his determination deserved to go, because it is happening, real and raw and right behind him, regardless of the matter of justice. He walks on. 

The boys gasp, loud yet typical. A chorus of shocked explicatories breaks up the monotony, but Stebbins still doesn’t look back. Then more shots ring out — had one not been sufficient? He imagines Harkness, mangled, limping onwards even after getting his ticket, only to be stopped by another shot. He shivers. 

Then a handful of boys stop walking. They stop walking, and no warnings ring out. Stebbins turns, still keeping pace. 

Harkness is alive and breathing, gasping out breaths, knocked onto his rear. His twisted ankle lay out in front of him, and further ahead, Stebbins sees his father’s head in the pavement, blood pooling underneath him. The Major had fallen from his perch atop the half-track, having caught a bullet between the eyes — the dark glasses, now shattered, perpetually obscure his eyes. 

Stebbins is too afraid to stop walking, but he keeps stumbling, and he knows he's hardly keeping pace. Everything else is horrifically still. The half-tracks have stopped. The walkers are stagnant. The soldiers face a similar fate to that of the Major — all but one are crumpled against the side of the half-tracks or the concrete or each other with matching bullet wounds. 

People emerge from the side of the hill, roughly a dozen, dressed blandly. Dressed like them. The only thing setting them apart is the presence of girls, women young and old, and guns slung over the backs of every person who crests the hill. 

An older woman with curly hair that floats above her shoulders — she reminds Stebbins of his mother, if her hair had been brown instead of blonde — walks up to the last living soldier, perched on the edge of the half-track. She helps him down from the vehicle, patting his back affectionately and muttering something in his ear.

The soldier is solemn, and the woman gives a speech, proclaiming the Walk is over. Boys cheer; Stebbins remains silent, though, by now, he's stopped walking. He’s furthest away, having committed to the rules the longest. The boys are sprinkled out in front of him, now moving closer to the half-tracks. McVries leans in to whisper something to Garraty, who stares ahead at the Major, frozen.

People begin boarding the half-tracks. First, the non-walkers, then the boys follow. A girl pulls Harkness to his feet, whispering something soft, and lifts the brunt of his weight as he limps toward a vehicle. Stebbins watches as she sets him down carefully, making sure his mangled foot is propped up. She hops back down and stands beside the woman who gave the speech, helping to delegate the walkers to the vehicles.

Stebbins is hit with a nauseating wave of wrongness. 

—

Soon they're all packed onto the half-tracks. They take a sharp turn, and the vehicles rock onto the soft grass. There are no gunshots, no punishments. They leave the pavement quietly. Glancing over his shoulder, Stebbins sees that the bodies were the only trace that the walkers had even made it this far. He spots the Major amidst the corpses, powerless in death, and shivers. 

Stebbins is riding alongside Harkness, the girl who helped him aboard, and the lone soldier that remained — the rat.

“How?” Harkness asks the girl, his journal perched atop his lap. His bad leg is spread across the aisle. He shoves his glasses up his nose and faces the girl attentively.

“Well. No broadcasting. That bought us a day. But we've been planning this for years. Waiting for the opportunity,” She insists, looking out past the road behind them. Harkness scrawls something in his book.

“How'd you manage to cut the cameras? At least — I’m assuming you cut the cameras, right?” He presses. Even in his state, Harkness is pertinacious. He grips his dull pencil with determination. 

“Yes, we did. And, all things considered. Technology is primitive, Harkness. We’re in a depression, and that leaves little time for real advancement. But plenty of time for a long walk, right?” She says it like a joke; it flows like a song. Stebbins looks away, squints against the sun, and thinks: it’s dissent. 

“How do you know my name?” Harkness presses. Stebbins thinks he’d make a great reporter in any other circumstances; he’s got the heart for it. 

“The broadcasts were up for the first day. You’re all over the papers: the writer with a heart of gold. You too, Stebbins,” She says, gesturing in his direction, “The white rabbit, the front runner. You had a real following,” She points languidly at Stebbins, squinting against the sun behind him. 

Stebbins only manages to nod. It's weird, hearing his name in a stranger's mouth. 

“Had?” 

“When the broadcast cut, the fanfare trickled out. Especially when they found out the Walk had been canceled. That’s what we told them anyway,” She says, glancing over her shoulder at the man steering the vehicle. 

She juts a thumb toward the soldier behind the wheel. A rat. He has a walkie strapped to his hip, but it's different from the ones he’d seen on the other soldiers as they refilled their canteens or handed off new rations or gunned down the boy next to him — it's larger, fancier, with a long-range antenna.

“Emerson helped. Our inside man,” She says, scrunching her face as though she can’t decide whether or not it's funny. The sun passes over her face still, between the shadows of the tree branches. “He controlled communications. Didn’t tell the Major the broadcasts had been cut, so you boys kept walking while the whole country thought you went home. That disparity was key. When Emerson gave us the signal, we were able to, uh, intervene.”

Stebbins works his jaw. “You killed the Major,” he says, hardly asking. 

She looks down, studying the dirty laces of her shoes. They’re clean and — Stebbins thinks he wouldn’t have noticed before this week — the soles are thick with texture. “Yes. I did,” she remarks, shoulders pinched and still looking down. 

“It was you?” Harkness asks, shaky and bewildered. He hardly hides his intrigue behind his words. Shit on a stick, Stebbins thinks. 

She glances upwards, if only briefly, to look Stebbins in the eye. His stare is layered with disdain, morose. A lock of her hair floats in front of her face, obscuring the image; it gets caught in the sunlight, glowing gold. It’s awfully windy this morning. 

“Yeah. I took the shot.” 

Stebbins’s mouth tastes of bile. It unnerves him to hear some discuss his father, his death, with so much resolve. He clears his throat, concealing a cough — is it always this cold in May? — and tugs his cap firmly over his head. 

—

Hours later, they reach a small motel, one from before the war. A forest has grown around it, and the parking lot and roads that lead to it have crumbled away into dirt. There's a small stretch of shops attached to the road — the remnants of a town pre-war — and an advertisement plastered on the window of a shop, peeling away and sunbleached of color, depicting a boy and girl leant against one another with bold hair and makeup, clothes in odd shapes and intricate patterns. Stebbins is bewildered that they’d have enough fabric to waste it on such a look. 

Eventually, the half-tracks rock onto the pavement, parking hastily in the motel's lot. The right half of the building has crumbled away, as if something had plowed into it. Stebbins had heard stories of bombs and airplanes and weapons of mass destruction — the technology that regressed them. He also heard stories of people: people killing people, and looting and breaking and starving and killing. They had feared the war — and all its components, man and his machinations alike — and that's why they walked, why they always walked. They didn't want to go back. They wanted a chance to escape the pain of the past, the present. 

Now, he's riding alongside a boy with a snapped, bloody ankle, and the whole lot of them are running on fumes and canned meat. Stebbins is no stranger to irony: it makes him sick. 

—

Time flies, and they’re settling in as the sun sets on them. It's an uncanny feeling to have this much freedom when hours ago he couldn’t move a step out of line for fear of the bullet. He walks almost aimlessly as they begin erecting a makeshift infirmary in the lobby. 

All the boys have heat exhaustion and blistering feet and joints rubbed raw, but the more intensive cases are propped on mismatched cots scavenged from who knows where. 

Harkness is among them, resting on his back on a cot tucked in the far corner. Passerbys keep eyeing his ankle; it’s making everyone uneasy. Art Baker lounges a cot away, sitting up with a bundle of ice against his nose. His musketeers linger close, gathered across from him in lobby chairs they have dragged across the space, shoes off and water bottles in their hands. 

Stebbins soon finds himself in a lobby chair of his own, leg bouncing as he attempts to gather his thoughts; he's been walking for miles, yet his body is still itching to move. 

He watches the girl from before, a killer, adjust the drip flowing into Harkness's arm. She addresses him kindly before moving to Baker, exchanging his bag of watery ice for a fresher, colder one. A nurse. 

In the time it’s taken to reach the town, Stebbins sickness has worsened tenfold. A headache nearly blinds him. He squints his eyes shut and hates to wonder what would’ve happened had he kept walking. 

He leaves the lobby, stepping out into the parking lot and crossing it to reach the room at the edge of the motel, furthest from the main entrance. It's dark out and colder. The short distance is torture on his sore feet. He thinks he’s left his shoes in the half-track, stripping them off unceremoniously once he realized they were rescued, and the pebbles from the concrete parking lot dig into where his socks had given way to blisters. 

He hasn’t been assigned a room yet, nor given a roommate. No one has. They were told to sleep wherever they wanted, wherever they were comfortable. Stebbins pries the door open, then locks it behind him. 

The room is equally as cold as the outdoors and filled with dry, stale air. Dust coats most of the furniture, and the walls are littered with hair-thin cracks. Two dusty twin-size mattresses split the room. Stebbins falls into the one furthest from the door, near the dark window with its curtains drawn. His head pounds, and he welcomes the feeling of the pillowy mattress, welcomes sleep. He doesn’t dream. 

—

Stebbins awakes to a dark room, which does wonders for his awfully persistent, piercing headache. A sore throat has manifested overnight, and Stebbins feels a cough brewing deep in his chest. The lowest of light peeks in through the split in the curtains, illuminating his bedside. 

There’s a glass of water, which he immediately reaches for, and a note. Thin letters carve out a message: Food in lobby - Davis. 

Stebbins is starving. He stares at the note, considering. 

He stands, moving toward the showers first. It’s heavenly — even if it is freezing. He forgot the luxury that is shampoo. The cold water trickles over him, energizing him. He relishes the feeling of being clean.

He drips through the room, stopping at the closet. It’s hardly stocked, only a few articles present, but he grabs something vaguely his size, and slips on a pair of clean, pale white socks, then his spare pair of dirty, worn-smooth, busted-up sneakers, the ones that took to slapping against his leg on the Walk. 

Stebbins wishes he had a new pair of shoes. And a meal.

—

Stebbins enters the lobby. He finds the musketeers have moved to the side with all the chairs, having vacated the infirmary-corner. Next to Art, Hank is asleep, slumped over with his chin to his chest and his legs kicked out in front of him. Art is engaged in quiet conversation with Pete, who is across the aisle from him. Art leans over, elbows on his knees, to hear him because Ray is sound asleep in the seat next to Pete, slumped over on his shoulder.

Stebbins feels a low pang of jealousy, but pays no mind — who makes friends on the Walk?

It appears that most stayed in the lobby that night, a headcount presenting roughly a dozen, including Harkness, who’s awake in the corner amidst now-empty cots. It’s almost ever-present — Harkness's scrawling — and now is no different, as the journal is propped on his lap, but where once was a mangled excuse for a foot is a bundle of white gauze. Stebbins thinks he’s grateful he slept in one of the rooms; he can’t imagine how excruciating the procedure was. 

He nods at Harkness as he passes, following the smell of breakfast to a small dining hall. Reading the note, Stebbins had allowed himself to dream: pancakes and waffles, bacon and eggs, syrup, biscuits, toast. He’s met with, pointedly, much less. 

Tables from before, with mismatched chairs, spread across the small room; natural light filters in through short windows. Against the far wall is a line of decommissioned soda machines, long-empty and covered in dust, next to them are rows of broken waffle makers and empty bins which might've once housed cereal. There's so much evidence of life from before, what life could be like if it were a different time.

There's a counter with a short line of people around it. Through a small windowed door, Stebbins can see a handful of people hunched over stoves. A woman comes out, carrying a stack of thin pancakes, piling them onto a wide tray. Next to it is a half-empty platter with seared spam, a bottle of maple syrup and a jar of cherry jelly, and a basket of green apples and shriveled oranges.

“Take as many as you'd like, boy,” Says the woman with the pancakes, “We have plenty to go around, but the coffee — get that while you can, it goes quick.” She says with a smile, winking, then absconding to the kitchen. A younger, thin boy replaces her shortly after. He replenishes the spam, smiling weakly at Stebbins before retreating to the kitchen.

Stebbins furrows his brows and fills his plate. He walks to the counter with the broken drink machines and pours himself a coffee from the small, near-empty pot; it's shinier, less dull and dusty than the rest of the things in the room.

He sits by himself, setting down the mug of coffee and his plate of food. He smears a glob of butter over the top of one of his pancakes; it doesn’t hold a candle to the sandwiches, but it reminds him of his mother anyway. Her soft palms and soft tears. He wonders if any of the other boys’ mothers had wept the way she did, wonders if they couldn't get it out of their heads either. 

The coffee is scalding. It burns his mouth as he swallows it, though he's grateful, as it assuages the scratchy-dryness of his sore throat. He revels in the way it warms him down to his fingertips — the sickness is getting harder to ignore, to push through.

There are nearly a dozen people in the dining hall, half of whom Stebbins recognizes as walkers: Barkovich sits with the soldier — the rat, Emerson — talking. He nods along to something Emerson says, stuffing his face. They look amicable, at least; maybe Barkovich finally found someone who wasn't pissed off by his mere existence.

After Stebbins finishes his meal, the musketeers make their way in. They're loud, filling their plates, and laughing like there's something to be laughing about. Stebbins stands, passing them to clear his plate.

He moves to leave, but Ray touches his shoulder.

“You good man?” Ray asks, furrowing his brows. His freckles dance. He's sunburned.

“Fine,” Stebbins replies, wrestling his shoulder free. 

Ray scowls. “Alright…”

“Slept better than the lot of you,” Stebbins course-corrects, trying to keep things light. He really is fine.

“Sure looks like you did,” Olson says, smacking on a bite of an apple. He gestures to his hair. Stebbins instinctively moves to tame his own, scoffing.

He leaves, planning to snag a novel or a magazine and return to his room when he notices Collie Parker tucked in a chair in the corner of the lobby. He looks — rigid. Collie's feet are planted against the floor, and his body is still. His shoes are still laced. He looks half asleep and on edge all at once.

“Parker.” Stebbins calls out, approaching him. Collie looks vaguely in his direction. “You alright? Looks like you haven't slept in weeks.” Stebbins presses, ignoring the half-truth of the matter. He knows Collie's exhausted, they all are, but he looks moreso, with his red eyes and slow blinking.

“I can't. We don't even know these people, man. How can you sleep, and trust you'll wake up?” Collie replies, looking up at Stebbins. He has the face of a boy who's trying so hard to be stoic, but the facade is cracking. He's tired.

Stebbins mulls it over for a moment, then makes an offer: “Come on, Parker. There's a spare mattress in the room I stayed in last night. Everyone else should be getting their rooms sometime today. I suggest you take the spot I'm offering, or you could get stuck with Barkovich, or some other lunatic.”

Collie looks up at him, skeptical, expression laced with vague mirth. Stebbins offers a hand, and Collie takes it firmly, letting Stebbins hoist him to his feet.

They cross the parking lot, and it's still early morning. The sun hasn’t fully risen, and it's casting shadows on the side of the building. The dew hasn’t even dried yet, sparkling in the sun, and Stebbins thinks it's almost pretty. 

Collie walks a few steps ahead, hands tucked in his pockets, and Stebbins notices movement in the treeline past the motel. He nearly thinks he’s jinxed it, getting too comfortable — his father’s army is here to shut this all down, wrap it up with a nice, digestible headline and a row of shallow, boy-sized graves, reinvigorate the Walk and forget this hiccup ever happened — when he recognizes the shape of a buck jumping through the brush. It stalks closer, making its halved set of antlers apparent. It walks unevenly due to the weight imbalance, a rhythmic limp, but it keeps walking nonetheless. 

Stebbins jogs the short distance ahead and opens the door for Collie, pointing out the empty, made bed. “Make yourself at home,” Stebbins says, frowning at the sentiment. 

“Thanks,” Collie says, and it's raw, gratitude layered under resolution. Stebbins nods and lets the door swing shut, smiling to himself as he returns to the lobby.

When he enters, he notices the girl from before — the nurse, the killer — at Harkness's bedside, a stool tucked underneath her. Stebbins eyes them as he sifts through the scarcely stocked bookshelf, tucking the most intriguing one under his arm. 

He flips through the smooth, yellow pages and sits down to read it, though he can’t make it through the first page before he’s launched into a coughing fit. It's agonizing — and embarrassing, the room turns to face him, to stare. He offers a reassuring wave and moves to grab water from the dining hall.  

As he takes a sip, he feels someone touch his arm; he almost chokes, falling back into the coughing. 

Once he regains his composure, he notices the girl lingering next to him, looking at him with concern. 

“Are you alright?” She asks, squinting at him. 

“Fine. Just allergies.” He replies, setting his jaw, looking anywhere but her skeptical face. 

“Sure.” She replies flatly. He attempts to maneuver around her, but she stops him. 

“Can you come with me?” She says, though it hardly sounds like a request. When he scowls at her, she adds: “Humor me, Stebbins.”

He does, following until she gestures at a cot. He stops in his tracks, though the crackling ache in his chest persuades him to sit down. His feet still ache, padding against the cool floor. 

She sits down on her stool, scooting closer to Stebbins, who stays upright. She pulls a first aid kit from the table between his cot and Harkness’s, handing him a thermometer. 

Stebbins scoffs. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” She replies, palm outstretched. She shakes the thing incessantly. Stebbins relents, placing the device in his mouth and waiting, awfully petulant, as she moves for a clipboard. 

“One oh three,” She says, scribbling away. It reminds him too much of Harkness to not shake his head. She sets down the clipboard, takes and sanitizes the thermometer, and tucks it away with the rest of the kit. 

“So I can go now?” Stebbins starts, already moving to stand; maybe he can return to his room with the novel. 

“Hell no,” She deadpans, “You have to stay here. We can’t have you spreading — whatever you’ve got.”

“What? No, that’s — this is…” Embarrassing. Stebbins is growing to hate the idea of spending another second in this dingy sick-corner. Superman doesn’t need someone to cater to his every need. 

“Live it up, tough guy.” 

Stebbins scoffs, properly leaning back onto the cot.

“I’m fine,” he insists. 

“Sure. You were just coughing for the fun of it. Any other symptoms?” she asks diligently. The clipboard has returned, tucked dutifully between her arms. 

Stebbins stares, dumbfounded. 

“Look, I have to write it down, okay? Helps us figure out what to give you to get rid of whatever it is.”

Stebbins recalls the morning’s sore throat, his piercing headaches, and lists them off to the girl with mild hesitation.  

“Thank you.” She sets down her clipboard and begins to tidy their dingy sick-corner, tucking away items into the bedside table between their cots. Harkness offers a small wave from behind the girl; Stebbins nods in return, cordial.

He turns back to his novel, flipping through to the page he left off on prior to his coughing fit. 

“Oh, I love that book!” The girl comments, putting away a roll of bandages, “Have you read it before?”

Stebbins sits up, leaning forward. “You know, I never caught your name.” It’s accusatory, blunt; he’s found himself tired of the formality. Collie Parker’s ideology has taken root, if only half-heartedly: what’s their angle?

She scowls, denoting his lack of reply. “It’s June. June Davis.” 

“Oh,” Stebbins reclines, faltering in response to her statement. He thinks of the note, the fulfilled promise of food, the ordeal of it being in his room at all. 

June’s brow furrows. “Rest up, Stebbins. I’ll find something for your headache.” 

And with a swift rise from her stool, she's gone. June slips behind the check-in counter and through an employees-only door. 

Stebbins leans onto an elbow toward Harkness, his novel resting open across his chest. He scowls. “What’s her deal anyway?”

Harkness turns sharply, face scrunched up. “Geez. She’s just trying to help.”

“Yeah. Lotta help she did on the Walk,” Stebbins replies, pursing his lips together in a frown. He recalls the masses of soldiers crumpled in on themselves, and his father's cracked sunglasses. Harkness heard her admit to the act — why would he defend her now? 

Harkness doesn’t look up from his journal, though he’s stopped writing for the moment, pen tapping on the paper instead. “She saved my life. Yours too. You sound awfully selfish, Stebbins.”

Stebbins falters; he’s taken aback, having not considered the angle that he should be grateful the Walk has ended. Garraty’s probably throwing a fucking party right about now. 

“What are we even doing here? You know this isn’t sustainable, right?” Stebbins compensates, “I mean — how long do you think this country’ll function without the Major. From what they’ve told us — which isn’t much, Harkness — it’s been almost three days. Things are going to crumble.”

Harkness is frowning now, mouth scrunched as he thinks. “They have a plan,” he replies, resolute. 

“And you believe that?” Stebbins counters. 

“They saved my life. I have to have faith they know what they’re doing.” Harkness looks up at Stebbins, square in the eye. Stebbins wishes he could hold his gaze, but it irks him, the strength of it all. Harkness sighs. 

“Whatever,” Stebbins tacks on, rolling onto his side, facing away from Harkness and the rest of the near-empty lobby. 

Despite himself, Stebbins shivers; the fever is setting in, really beginning to take its toll.

He recognizes that he’s in the wrong, snapping at Harkness. Everything has snowballed into something unmanageable. First the Walk, and the stupid sneezing, then his father and this place. It doesn’t make any sense — and he’s not like Harkness, Stebbins can’t process the mind-fuck of it all in a stupid diary. Instead, it's stewing. And it’s awful. 

He’s never had friends. Not before the Walk, and certainly not during, when they chased after him like a pack of greyhounds. He doubts he’ll make any now, when yesterday his only regard for the boys around him was to outlast them, outlive them.

He attempts to distract himself with his novel, with the words on the page. He reads the same line maybe three times over, getting distracted each time before he can finish. It's all looping: June with the first aid kit and June with the gun, Harkness with his snapped ankle and Harkness with his stump, the Major with cracked sunglasses and bloodless skin. He can’t focus with the way his headache is settling into the space behind his eyes. 

He feels a pat on his shoulder and rolls over. It’s June, having returned with a bottle of antibiotics. Stebbins eyes it warily. 

“It’s all we’ve got,” she says, pouring him a dosage, “Please, just take it.”

He does. It's sickly in its own right, cloying and sharp, and it tastes of plastic cherries, a poor imitation of his mother’s jelly sandwiches. June checks a watch, noting the time, and Stebbins is reminded of checking his wrist for his speed; his watch is still there, strapped around his arm, imploring him to keep pace, to push on past the blisters and exhaustion and headaches. In a haze, he slips it off, discarding it on the floor. He tries to focus on her pencil as she scrawls the time, but the headache persists, even now. 

“You should be fine until tonight,” she comments, frowning slightly. Stebbins would say something about not wanting her pity had he not been so cold; instead, he pulls his overshirt tighter around himself. 

“Thanks,” he tacks on hesitantly. 

She eyes him before standing to leave.

—

Stebbins tries to finish the novel, but finds anything beyond closing his eyes too difficult. He falls in and out of sleep. In the moments he's awake, he tries hard to forget about the final moments of the Walk; in the moments he's sleeping, he doesn’t dream. 

He wakes to someone’s hand on his shoulder, rousing him gently. He squints his eyes open only to find it's dark, the day having slipped past him. He also finds that a blanket has been draped over him. He reluctantly sits up, pushing the blanket aside. 

The hand belongs to June; she sits on her stool between Stebbins and Harkness’s cots, preparing another dosage of antibiotics. Harkness is sound asleep, facing away from Stebbins, June, and the soft lamplight. June takes his temperature again before handing him the small paper cup of medicine. He knocks it back quickly, scowling at the taste. 

“God. How is that worse the second time?” He hands her back the cup, and she crumples it before tossing it into a wastebasket. 

“Because you know it’s coming,” she says with practiced familiarity, “Feeling any better?”

“No, worse,” Stebbins scowls. He’s not in the headspace to sugarcoat it. He pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Goddamn headache. Fucking pounding. Can hardly keep my eyes open.”

June purses her lips together, then leans over to search the side table. She reveals a bottle of pills, shaking a pair into her palm. “I don’t know if this is allowed. But they should help.”

She sticks out her hand, and Stebbins meets her halfway, accepting the pills and downing them with his half-empty glass of water from that morning. “Thanks,” he mutters. 

June stands, turning to leave, when Stebbins notices the handgun tucked in the holster on her hip. He remembers then that this place is hardly a sanctuary. He remembers why they’re here; his feet twitch in phantom pain. Stebbins remembers the last time June admitted to using a gun. 

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” He asks, gesturing vaguely in her direction. He pushes himself upwards to a sitting position. 

“Mary. She runs this place,” June comments with vague fondness. It conjures up images of the woman from the road, with wispy hair and faint lines of age, the one who had given them a nice speech.

She saved us, Harkness had said, have faith.

“Harkness,” Stebbins says quietly, looking in the direction of the cot next to him, “He says you have a plan. I’m having a hard time believing it. I mean — what's going to happen to us all? Olson’s got a wife, and poor Art is homesick.” I miss my mom. Stebbins feels petulant, in that moment, looking up at June and asking to go home. He watches as she considers what to say next.

“I’m… I’m not sure how much I can say but, when your fever breaks, Stebbins, I’ll get you in somewhere. Okay? I don’t want you to feel stranded. You’ll know the plan. Eventually,” She looks over her shoulder: the employees only door, “Mary’ll tell you everything. We need someone like you, but not yet.”

Stebbins wants to take her by the shoulders and shake her until whatever the hell she means falls out. He thinks his face might betray the thought, because she laughs. 

Stebbins shakes his head, relenting. “Sorry. I should’ve assumed something like this would take time. Thank you, for helping, in the meantime.”

She nods, retreating to the employees-only door, leaving Stebbins alone with his thoughts. 

He considers the reason he joined the Walk in the first place and considers why that goal will never be fulfilled. It’s almost disorienting, lying there with a splitting headache all day, watching the same person who killed his father in cold blood bustle around playing nurse. He wonders how someone can be both so gentle, bringing Harkness his meals and carefully pouring Stebbins’s medicine, and so cruel.

He falls asleep vacillating. He thinks he’ll never understand.

—

Stebbins finds the sickness has worsened, and his feet still hurt. He’s still walking, and it's dark, so much so that everything beyond the half-track in front of him has blurred away. The rain is no help, coming down strong, blurring his vision, and soaking his clothes.

His shoes are soaked. They squelch with every step, and the damp fabric cuts blisters into his heels, his toes, his ankles. 

The world spans out eerily in front of him: surreal, intangible, and foggy at the edges. He strains to see anything, anything beside the wet tarmac and the wet half-track and his wet eyelashes; he comes up with nothing. He walks on, sniffling periodically. 

The vehicle ahead begins making a horrible noise. The rain must be wearing out the gears because it groans and shrieks like a dying animal. The Major stands atop the vehicle, leaning against the railing and looking down at Stebbins. Somehow, he isn’t affected by the rain. 

Stebbins can't see the Major’s eyes through the glasses — no one ever has. It's meant to make him appear more stoic, he read once. Stebbins thinks it makes him a coward. He doesn’t know what his father’s eyes look like. Stebbins halfheartedly wonders if they’d behold him with softness, in his final moments.

The image in front of Stebbins twists. The glasses grow cracks, and a river of dark crimson begins flowing down the side of the Major’s neck. It stains the collar of his shirt and spills down his chest. The Major seems unfazed, though, as he begins yelling something indistinguishable; his mouth moves angrily, and Stebbins strains to decipher his words. He can’t understand him, but Stebbins knows he wants them to keep walking.

There’s one more walker. The last one. Again, Stebbins strains, this time to make out the face of the last walker, but he’s met with nothing. Their face is blurred, and they won’t turn, won't acknowledge Stebbins or his coughing. Fair skin sticks out of the sleeve of the last walker, and he has blond hair that's dirty and matted, but he doesn’t seem phased, nor tired. The rain soaks through his clothes, but he stands tall. He’s strong. He could keep walking for miles. It reminds Stebbins of looking in a mirror, at least before he began the Walk. 

Stebbins has no clue what he must look like now: only the shell of the poster boy he once was. He was supposed to win, he thinks distantly, but there's no chance now.

From the foggy outskirts of the tarmac, a rabbit darts out. It begins to dance between their legs, its long limbs stretching and pulling under white fur. But it's just a rabbit, skinny and meek; Stebbins thinks he can last a little longer before his lungs give out, just to see how the rabbit fairs.

Soon, the rabbit makes a misstep, falling under the boot of Stebbin’s mirror. His heavy steps crush the animal’s hind legs. It begins to screech, harmonizing with the half-track as it jumps around frenetically. In its wild paroxysm, it gets caught under the tire of the half-track. Stebbins hears it squelch and pop, and he keeps walking. He figures he must be used to it now, having outlasted the other forty-eight boys who once walked alongside him.

He looks back at the mangled mess of rabbit, slowly receding into the distance. Red pools around it, trails down the tarmac, and sticks to the wheel of the half-track. 

The girl who both remedied Harkness’s ankle and killed his father appears, emerging from the void and stepping onto the road. June, his mind supplies a beat too late. She bends down, scooping up the rabbit. She floats between the two walkers, passing them entirely, and hands the mutilated rabbit to the Major. He takes the heap of bones and raises it high. The girl stops then, letting the vehicles and the walkers pass her. She does not receive any warnings. 

Stebbins walks past her, but she latches onto his arm before he gets too far. She asks him to stop, and he does. His warnings do ring out, loud and converging from every angle. He feels the sound of it rattle his bones, reach into his fluid-filled lungs. Third and final warning, Number 38. 

Though, the carbines don’t fire, and Stebbins still gets to watch his mirror have his wish granted. He stands below the half-track the Major is perched on, arms outstretched. The Major tightens the fist that was wrapped around the rabbit, squeezing the remains into a small porcelain cup. 

Is that what you want, asks a voice from the base of his skull. He turns to June, expecting hers to be the one asking, but her gaze is fixed on the tea party ahead of them. He tries to ignore it, but the weight of the question makes his palms burn, and his lungs ache. In this moment, he’s as sick as he will ever be.

In a final, desperate act, the mirror reaches up to grab the cup. The Major attempts to pass it off to the final walker, to his winner, but the cup slips from his grasp, slick with rain, and shatters against the pavement. 

—

Stebbins wakes with a clear mind. His headache is gone. His fever must have broken overnight. 

Now, in the early morning, light pours in over the grimy lobby floor. The sun has barely risen, and the room is shrouded in blue-gray. Though the lobby is primarily silent, it's beginning to wake: he hears movement in their makeshift dining hall, and a few boys have yet to migrate to the rooms, taking to sleeping in the lobby still. Stebbins wants to be alone, and the reality of people around makes him feel suddenly jittery, caged like the animal from his dream. 

He absconds silently out the back door of the lobby, quiet steps against cool concrete. He tells himself he just needs a breath of fresh air after being trapped inside for so long; he neglects to dwell on the reality of being outside for days on end during the Walk. 

To his surprise, Collie Parker is a few yards away from the exit, nursing a cigarette. He’s slumped against the wall, looking oddly forlorn. He hasn’t made a point of noticing Stebbins.

“The hell are you doin’ back here, Parker?” Stebbins asks softly, in earnest, splicing concern with levity. He leans into the wall; Stebbins may have recovered from his fever, but he’s still warm with the drowsiness of sleep.

Collie turns to appraise him, a smile ghosting his face. “Could say the same to you, Stebbins. Aren’t you supposed to be in quarantine or some shit?”

“No uh… Not anymore,” Stebbins says, shaking his head as he looks down at his feet. He didn’t think anyone was paying that close attention, let alone Collie. “I’m right as rain.”

Collie nods, looking content, then raises the cigarette, before pausing. “You smoke?” he asks, offering the smouldering thing in Stebbins direction. 

“No thanks,” Stebbins says, waving a dismissive hand.

“Right. Forgot I’m talking to Superman,” Collie comments, though it's innocuous. Stebbins frowns all the same, watching the red-orange flicker brighten as Collie takes a long drag. 

“Y’know, I was always wondering. Stebbins. Is that your actual name — or just what you go by?” Collie interjects into the silent morning air. The birds haven’t awoken, if there are any.

“No uh… My name’s Billy. But Stebbins is just what everyone calls me.”

Collie nods, considering. “Everyone?” He asks, “Even your mom?”

“No, she’d… She’d call me sweetheart. Always sweetheart,” Stebbins clarifies, “All the way to the end, pressing those goddamn sandwiches into my hand, kissing me goodbye.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “Sorry. I fuckin’ miss her.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” Collie says calmly, like it’s fact. He punctuates with a drag from his cigarette. Stebbins thinks there’s plenty to be sorry about, knowing it was his own volition that got him here — tucked behind a motel in the early hours of the morning with Collie Parker, a few miles from the road dozens of them had died on. 

“I know how you feel,” Collie starts, “Can’t stop… can’t stop fuckin’ thinkin’ about it. My mom must be scared out of her mind right now. Walk’s canceled, but I’m still missing. Probably thinks they lined us all up and brought out the firing squad. God, I’d do anything for one phone call.”

Stebbins stares down at his feet and feels just about the same. It’s an odd thing, hindsight. He knows now that he’d be better off at home; right about now, he’d be waking in his own bed, maybe pulling on a pair of boots, preparing for the day's work. He had never considered a reality where he didn’t sign up for the Walk, never dreamt of a world without it. He feels callow, like a fledgling with wet wings, unsure of what flying is supposed to look like in a world built for walking.

“And my sister, too,” Collie continues, gesturing out at the fog, “I miss their laughter — a house full of girls, can you imagine?” Collie exhales a halfhearted attempt at laughter; it lacks any mirth and just feels pitiful. “Loud as shit, and I still miss it. God, I’m homesick.”

Stebbins scowls, calculating. “I hope you don’t mind me askin’ Parker, but why the hell are you here? Seems like you had plenty reason to stay home.” Stebbins thinks his accusation sounds a touch vituperative, but Collie seems to understand the nature of his question. 

He draws in a long breath, then sighs. “Same reason just about everyone is here. Money’s tight — better to die out on the tarmac than starve to death, right?” He smiles, though it's pained, humorless. “Signed up thinking that, on the off chance I got picked, I’d have a decent shot at winning — and either way, I’d get three meals a day before I went. And I wouldn’t have went quietly, I know that much. Plus, should I’ve been lucky enough to win, then I’d never have to see my Ma go hungry again.”

Stebbins nods and feels guilt fester in the pit of his stomach. He feels selfish. There was no righteous, heroic rationale pushing him to lay down his life and walk a couple of hundred miles. No, he had only signed up to see his father, to prove all this — their regime, his preparation, the pedestal this whole recurrence was placed upon — meant something. But he hadn’t proved much of anything, and now it's all crumbling at his feet, mixing with the ash from Collie’s cigarette.

Stebbins reckons that even though he might’ve had the best chance of winning, he didn’t deserve it — not more than Collie, at least.

“What would you’ve wished for, Collie, should you have won?” Stebbins asks, facing Collie. He studies the slope of his nose, then his mouth as it wraps around the cigarette. Smoke falls from his lips as he answers. 

“I never thought that far ahead,” He says, meeting Stebbins’s gaze. He laughs, though it's halfhearted and almost sullen — it's a welcome abnormality to see an expression on Collie’s face other than his familiar scowl. “Maybe… I would’ve wished for a nice plot of land, built a compound or something, used the money so at least a couple of kids never have to even consider signing up for the Walk. But I don’t know…” Collie pauses, “If I could really wish for anything, I’d do away with the whole Walk altogether.” He stops suddenly, smiling something real, if a little wayward. “Hey, I guess I kinda got what I wanted, right?”

Stebbins’s face scrunches. Collie’s making a joke, looking for levity; Stebbins struggles to extend him that commonality. He considers someone seeing the Major, out there on the tarmac, and feeling anything other than a numbing wrongness, let alone feeling fulfilled. He feels a wrongness of his own when he realizes that's not so far-fetched — maybe, in some way, the Major’s end was a necessary evil. 

“Y’know, I had my money on you, Superman. What would you have used your wish for, once you won?” Collie asks, gesturing in Stebbins direction. 

Stebbins laughs, abashed. “I admire your confidence, Collie. I uh… I was going to wish to have tea with my father.” The word tastes bitter on Stebbins’s tongue. “Had it planned out from the moment I signed up.” 

Stebbins can feel Collie staring, though he doesn’t look up from the concrete. He knows he looks shameful. 

“Tea?” Collie starts, exasperated confusion evident in his tone, “You were willing to walk three hundred miles for tea? Stebbins. Bill. You’re confusing me. Even the lousiest dad would jump at the opportunity to have tea with his millionaire son.” Collie appraises Stebbins — who looks small as he curls in on himself, leaning against the wall — fixing Stebbins with a nonplussed expression. “What am I missing here?”

Stebbins smiles, though it's downturned and more a pursing of lips than a grin. He recalls Collie’s unbridled vitriol against the Major, even from the start, and Stebbins feels a jolt of apprehension that shakes him to the core. They’re building something fragile here, and an admission of this caliber could raze everything. Stebbins is fostering something rare, and he’s realizing he’s not quite ready to face the potential of losing it. 

“The Major’s my father,” Stebbins mutters into the morning air. The birds are still silent, the cowards. 

Collie brings the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. He takes his precious time on the exhale as well. Stebbins watches the smoke take its place in the space between them and considers retreating to the lobby. 

“Fuck, man,” Collie states. Brevity is the soul of wit. 

“Signed up for his Walk so I could meet him,” Stebbins compensates, “Thought maybe it’d put it all into perspective, make it make sense, y’know? That I’d — understand.” 

Collie only stares: bewildered, afraid, then grimacing. Stebbins frowns, scowling and turning away so he doesn’t have to face that look. 

“You can be mad all you want, Parker,” Stebbins remarks, “Hate me. But don’t say shit about my mom. I may be his bastard, but she’s still… She’s…”

“No. No, it's not that,” Collie says, looking frustrated, “Bill, he was your father. Laid out on the pavement, right in front of you…” Collie’s tone fades into a mumble as he contemplates the reality of it all. Stebbins winces at the image. 

“Sorry,” Collie assuages, “It’s just — it must be hard.” He’s frowning now, a sympathetic downturn of his mouth. 

“Don’t be like that, Parker. I don’t want your pity.” Stebbins spits. He squares his shoulders, lifting away from the wall. “I know you wanted him dead,” he retorts, “I saw your smug ass, smiling.” Stebbins hadn’t actually seen such, but the image was easy to conjure and, at the very least, it made sense. Maybe the reaction would be warranted. 

“Would you stop?” Collie remarks, scowling. He drops the cigarette, crushing it under his shoe. “Sure. I wanted the fucker dead — hell, the world’s better off…” Collie pauses, “But you’re my friend, alright?”

It’s Stebbins turn to pause; he stiffens, searching Collie’s face for an ounce of insincerity. He doesn’t find it. 

“You’re my friend,” Collie reiterates, “And your dad just died. It’s only right to offer my condolences. And I am sorry — if that matters. God, this is all fucked, Stebbins.” 

Stebbins only nods, words escaping him. He’s never had someone call him friend. He had thought McVries and his musketeers were stupid to wear their hearts on their sleeves. Maybe they were only delaying the inevitable, but it hadn’t really been inevitable, had it? Now they can pal around in the air-conditioned motel, rest their feet, and smile and laugh. Stebbins doesn’t get to share that camaraderie. 

He looks at Collie, really looks, and wonders how he’s kind enough to offer condolences to the man who gunned down the boys walking with him. Stebbins also thinks he might not deserve the sympathy he’s receiving, but he also thinks he doesn’t care. 

Stebbins was wrong, before. Making friends on the Walk is a delicately human thing. 

“Thanks, Collie.”

—

The motel has begun to wake by the time Stebbins and Collie head inside. Collie walks a few steps ahead of Stebbins, leading the way to this dining hall; they follow the smell of warm food and the sound of the boys' chatter. Sun splatters on the floor, filtering through windows.

As they pass the employees' only door, they notice June sitting in a chair tucked next to the door frame. She shoots up, grabbing Stebbins by the arm. He turns to face her, and Collie stops walking.

“Sorry,” she starts, looking between the two, “Remember what I said, before? About explaining things?”

“Sure,” Stebbins replies, skeptical.

“Well, now’s the time. Mary’s upstairs waiting for you.” June looks back over her shoulder at the employees-only door.

Stebbins frowns, thinking. He glances at Collie, whose apprehensive and nearly ever-present scowl has returned. Collie still doesn’t trust much of what’s happening behind the curtain here. Stebbins doesn’t know if he blames him.

“I’ll catch up, yeah?” Stebbins says, looking between Collie, the dining hall behind him, and June. 

Collie opens his mouth to speak, then hesitates. He scrutinizes the situation and concludes with an eloquent: “Whatever.” He turns and walks away to retrieve his breakfast.

Stebbins follows June into the corridor. It opens to a dark stairwell. It’s shrouded in a dim light, emanating from a window at the top of the stairs. It casts long, stark shadows and makes Stebbins feel uneasy at best.

At the top of the stairs, a door opens into a room not unlike the one he shares with Collie, but instead of two beds and a dresser, it looks more like an office. Along the back wall is a window, centered. On the right side, there’s a pair of large maps: one of North America, one of Maine, both annotated heavily. On the left side of the window stands a cabinet, ajar; inside is a row of carbines and a few rifles. Above the weapons, on a shelf, is a collection of medicine bottles, bandages, and objects of that nature.

In the middle of the room is a wooden table. Stebbins recognizes the outline of Ray and Pete where they sit at the table with their backs to the door. They turn, along with the rest of those in the room, to acknowledge Stebbins and June’s arrival. Though the two offer confused expressions, Mary — he now recognizes her as the woman who gave them the speech, the one who taught June to shoot, the catalyst — smiles at their arrival, beckoning the two to take a seat, which they do.

Along the right wall of the room, a desk juts out. The surface and the space below it are covered in wires that connect to complex, blinking radios. On the edge rests a yellow telephone with a bright white curly cord, looping toward the floor. Stebbins bets they could ring anyone in the world with that setup. Emerson sits at the desk with headphones on his head, fidgeting with the dials on the radio. Mary calls his name, and Emerson slips the headphones off with practiced familiarity, moving to sit at the table with the rest of them. He leans onto his crossed arms, waiting for Mary to begin.

“I’m glad you boys could make it,” She begins, “Now, I won’t waste any time sweetenin’ this up with nice words. We are in a strong position. The pockets of people so entrenched in the Walk that their willin’ to take up arms for it don’t know a lick of their Major’s fate yet. We have the advantage.

“We have a committee of sorts, focused on creating stability. They’ll build an interim government. After that, we plan for elections, checks and balances, things of that nature. Real restoration of American glory. Just imagine it, boys. Using that prize money to reinvest, build food banks so families aren’t going hungry. Restoring the buildings destroyed in the war, instead of letting them rot, while people sleep on the streets.” Stebbins looks at Pete; Mary’s sentiments echo the dreams Pete had described on the Walk. Sure enough, he’s smiling something prideful. Next to him, Ray looks determined.

“Sorry, I’m gettin’ a little off track. My point is — there is hope for change. I think you three know that. But we need the public to believe that too,” Mary emphasizes, “Right now, you're the closest thing to public figures. You’re the walkers.

“Ray, Pete — the public admired your friendship. You gave them something to root for and, in turn, it made your ideas more palatable. Now, more than ever, people are open to change, to considering that life can be better — and it can be better,” she concludes with a sure nod. Ray and Pete look at each other, exchanging a wordless conversation. Stebbins still wonders how they learned to do that, or if it came just as naturally as breathing.

“And Stebbins,” Mary continues, turning to face him. He doesn’t like the feeling of eyes observing him from all sides of the table. “With your ancestry, it would be extremely beneficial for you to — I’m getting ahead of myself.”

We need someone like you, June had said, but not yet. Stebbins figures now is as good a time as any.

“What I’m trying to say is, we’d like you all to do speeches, to broadcast them, like the Walk, to convince people that the whole ordeal isn’t necessary — that we can be restored without this ritual,” Mary finishes, scanning their faces for opposition or uncertainty. June nods along to her every word; her eyes shine with admiration. 

“What do you say?” Mary asks, her words filling the space between them, practically hovering over the table.

Ray nods and is the first to speak, which Stebbins finds unsurprising. “If it's alright with you, Pete…” He says, trailing off as he turns to face Pete, who nods gently.

“Sounds peachy,” Pete replies, a wide, winning smile splitting his face. 

And suddenly, the table is facing him yet again. “Sure, fine,” Stebbins chokes out; he feels now is inappropriate to make the request that's been nagging at the back of his mind since he walked in.

A smile finds its place on Mary’s face, deepening the soft lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. “Right, that’s all. We’ll help you prepare if needed, but it won’t be for a little while. Either way, we’ll be here, every step of the way. Thank you, boys, and enjoy your rest.”

“‘Course,” Pete says, flashing his bright, white grin as he begins to stand, “Now, if you’d excuse us” — he claps a hand on Ray’s shoulder, smiling down at him — “I believe a nice plate of breakfast is waiting for us downstairs.” Ray grins, shaking his head, and follows Pete out of the room. Stebbins watches them leave. 

Emerson has returned to his desk, seated with his headphones strapped to his head, and June stands over him, asking questions which Emerson half-heartedly answers, preoccupied. Stebbins is the only one left at the table, aside from Mary. 

“I’ll do it,” Stebbins reiterates. Mary turns her head to face him, a puzzled look on her face. He continues, “But… Is there any way I could make a phone call?” Stebbins tries not to look in the direction of Emerson's desk, the fancy wires, the very facilities that could grant his request.

Mary frowns, sincere, and Stebbins feels himself stiffen. “I don’t know,” she begins, chewing on the corner of her lip, “It could be dangerous.”

“Please,” Stebbins insists, "It'd just be my mom.”

For a long while, Mary considers it, scrunching her mouth as she mulls the idea over. “I suppose one should be fine.”

“Two.” Stebbins blurts, almost before he realizes. Mary fixes him with an inquisitive look. 

“Or just one, so long as Parker gets a phone call home. He deserves it,” Stebbins explains, looking down at the table, memorizing its wood grain. He feels Mary’s eyes on him; he looks up and is met with a warm expression, the soft crinkle of her eyes. 

“I think we can work something out,” She says, smiling. “Emerson?” She calls, and he turns, sliding the headphones off fully. 

“I don't think it's a good idea…” His protest fizzles out in response to Mary’s expression hardening, daring defiance. “Okay, uh — two? Not today, but soon enough. Mary, are you sure?”

“Positive,” she replies, offering a reassuring nod to Stebbins, who begins to stand. 

“Thank you for considering me. I appreciate it, really,” Stebbins insists, “I’m going to join them for breakfast, though. If you’ll excuse me…”

Mary nods. “Enjoy your meal, Billy.” Stebbins's pace falters for a moment, hearing his name, though he makes it to the stairwell regardless. 

He expected an empty lobby once he emerged from the stairwell, all the boys preoccupied with their meals; however, he’s met with Pete and Ray, who linger behind the counter that separates the check-in from the rest of the lobby. They waited. 

Ray is staring at him, eyes wide and calculating. He’s leant back against the counter, passing his hat from one hand to another. Pete, who hasn’t looked up at Stebbins yet, wears a smirk; he preoccupies himself with combing through the near-empty drawers. 

Pete clicks his tongue and shuts the drawer he was working through. “Finally,” he comments with a smile — he’s finding something very amusing, “What took you so long?”

Stebbins ignores him, ambling past the counter and toward the dining hall. 

“Was the Major your father, Stebbins?” Ray calls after him. It's hardly accusatory or sardonic, but a plain question that makes the air feel flat. Stebbins stares at the floor, feeling ashamed — it's a new feeling. Shame is something he’s unaccustomed to. 

Ray doesn’t say anything more, but Pete finally lets out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Sorry,” he compensates, attempting to stifle his grin with his palm, “It just makes too much sense!”

Stebbins' head shoots up, feeling a spark of anger, or maybe his newfound ignominy, burn in his gut. He’s met with Ray’s eyes, harsh and shadowed under furrowed brows. He’s searching for something. Stebbins thinks, in some twisted way, they’re a bit even now. Two sides of the same calamitous coin: both the heir to fathers with matching bullets lodged deep in their skulls. Here they stand, in one another’s shoes. 

Pete walks between them — ever the breath of fresh air — and claps each of them on the shoulders. 

“Enough of this,” he says, “Let’s eat.”

—

A day later, Stebbins begins cleaning the room he and Collie share, if only to gain a sense of order. They’ll be leaving soon enough, at least that’s what he tells himself, shipping off back home, returning to their families. He hates to admit how much he’s grown to miss the rolling plains of his home state. Maine’s nice, but nothing beats home.

As he makes his bed, he gets overrun by a wave of deja vu. It’s weirdly foreign to make a bed other than the one he’s had since childhood. The dizzying feeling makes him miss home even more.

A while ago, Mary had shown up at their door, pulling Collie away from his novel. She explained that the line was clear, and Collie leapt at the opportunity to make a phone call. Stebbins had waved him off, though Collie hardly waited for his approval. Now, Stebbins hears the door opening as he crouches down to tuck in his sheets.

He looks up to see Collie flopping down onto his bed. He’s smiling, much lighter than he was the first day they were at the motel. Stebbins laughs at the sight, then stands and shoves him.

“Fuck off, man. I just finished making it,” Stebbins says; there’s no animosity. He reaches for the pillow underneath Collie and tugs it away, then begins fluffing it as Collie stands, laughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” Collie says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. He’s still grinning as he continues, “Line’s free. They’re waiting on you, Bill.”

“Shit,” Stebbins says, tossing down the pillow. Suddenly, he’s nervous, overcome with trepidation, “You’re serious?”

“Yeah,” Collie says, gently, though plainly, like it's obvious. Stebbins moves toward the door, lingering in the frame. Collie waves him off, still standing near the middle of the room.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Stebbins asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, half out the door.

Collie nods faithfully. Stebbins absconds, crossing the motel lot and entering the lobby. 

He slips past the check-in counter and through the employees-only door with ease. He feels ansty, brittle as he climbs the stairs, entering the room they met in the other day. Compared to before, when the room was full of others, now only Emerson inhabits the space. Stebbins never got a good read on the guy: he’s odd, yet amicable. He’s at his desk; the faint clicking caused by his ever-present fidgeting with the tech fills the room. The window is open, allowing the late afternoon light to flutter in and paint stripes of light over the wooden table they all had met at.

Emerson stands, offering Stebbins the chair. He begins gesturing at the phone as he speaks.

“Just, uh, dial like normal. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Try and, uh, make it quick, alright? The longer the phone call, the higher the likelihood of it being tapped, yeah?” Emerson instructs, nodding as if to get his point across.

Whatever that means. Stebbins nods anyway, “Sure.” 

Emerson, seemingly satisfied, backs away. Stebbins knows his mother’s number by heart; by the time he’s done dialing the sequence, Emerson has left, and the line crackles alive.

“Hello?” his mother's voice calls. It's thin and unsuspecting. Overtly, she sounds inconvenienced, though there’s an implicit sadness underscoring her tone. Stebbins feels his breath catch in his throat, and the feeling of homesickness magnifies, hitting him like a freight train. 

“Mom?” He responds, and he isn't proud of how boyish he sounds — though who could blame him.

“Billy, sweetheart, is that you?” She calls, and the anguish is apparent in her voice. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, feeling small. He knows Emerson said to keep it short, but he feels the sudden urge to never hang up the phone; he didn’t know just how much he missed his mother until he heard her speak. “Yeah, Mom. I’m okay. How are you?”

“How am I?” Her exasperation is tangible, buzzing through the receiver. “Billy, you’ve… Where have you been? Where are you now? I’ll come pick you up, okay? Just tell me where you are.” She’s lapsing into desperation, and it’s putting Stebbins on edge. The idea sounds infinitely appealing; he wants nothing more than for his mother to drive them home, like he’s six years old and getting picked up from school. 

“I…” He considers it, the ease with which he could tell her. This could all be over for him. He could go home, let the rebels be usurped, and simply give up on their mission for change. He could let his father win; even in death, the grip he has is like iron. 

“I’m sorry, Ma, I don’t think I can.” He decides, frowning for his own benefit. Stebbins wonders if she can hear how difficult this is for him through the tone of his voice, the same way he can practically reach out and grab her heartache.

“What, no. Billy…” She sounds betrayed. Stebbins thinks that’s an accurate assumption.

“I’m okay, Mom. I promise. I just wanted to hear your voice, wanted to let you know that I’m alright. I’ll be home soon enough. I swear.” Stebbins steels himself, forcing his tone to remain even, stoic. He doesn’t want his mother to undo herself even more because of a stray warble. 

He hears her sniffle on the other end; it threatens to break him. “Don’t cry mom. Please," he insists.

He can hear the crackle of her mouth splitting into a smile and the roughness of her palms as it wipes against her face. “You’re right, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay is all,” she pauses, taking a deep breath. Her exhale catches on the receiver, creating a soft rasp.

“You’re sure I can’t come pick you up?” She tries one last time. 

“I’m sure, Mom,” Stebbins reiterates, “I’ll be home the minute I can be. I swear.”

At first, his mother doesn’t respond, taking a long pause to consider. In that moment, Stebbins feels the awful urge to throw caution to the wind and tell her everything, to beg her to drive the miles and take him home. He can picture her face, the warmth of her embrace. He steels himself, constricting the phone in his fist.  

“Okay, Billy. I love you,” She says, gasping it out in one breath. 

“Love you too, Mom. I’ll see you soon. I swear.” Stebbins says it with all the conviction he can muster. He needs her to believe it, so he can, too. 

“Goodbye, sweetheart.” She concludes. It makes Stebbins smile, despite himself. 

—

When he walks outside after ending his phone call, it's dusk. The parking lot is wrapped in a vague, deep blue darkness, assuaged partially by the dim, warm light that emits from the bulbs outside of each door — only half of which actually work. The boys take to the atmosphere like candy, all of them somehow deciding simultaneously that now was the time to come out and play. 

Stebbins passes Harkness on the way back to his room. The sidewalk outside of his room, which functions like a tiny porch, is blocked with two rocking chairs, one of which Harkness is nestled in. Against the wall just behind him rests a lone crutch; Stebbins is glad Harkness’s fate hadn’t surmounted him. 

“Harkness,” Stebbins calls, stopping in front of him and tucking his hands in his pockets, “How are you?”

Harkness looks up from the journal in his lap — Stebbins wonders how he never gets bored with the thing — and sets down his pencil. “Pretty great, all things considered. And yourself?”

Stebbins smiles before responding. “That’s real good, man. And I’m doin’ alright myself.” Harkness nods in response. “Have you seen Collie?” Stebbins asks, attempting to appear indifferent. 

Harkness fixes his glasses, shoving them up the bridge of his nose, before pointing in the direction of the second-floor balcony. Sure enough, as Stebbins follows the direction of Harkness’s gesture, he can see Collie Parker perched against the railing. Stebbins throws a thanks in Harkness’s direction as he moves toward the staircase, climbing them unceremoniously. 

“Hey,” Stebbins calls out, and Collie tosses a glance over his shoulder. 

“You sure look happy,” Collie asserts, looking smug, if pleased. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Stebbins responds, a little breathless as he joins Collie against the railing. He feels like they're on the inside of some huge joke that only they know the punchline to; Stebbins feels instantly vulnerable knowing Collie feels the same way, probably wondering, out of all of the boys, why’d Stebbins stick his neck out for him, alone?

Stebbins looks at Collie, who smiles out at the parking lot. It’s windy, chillier than it was an hour ago when the sun was up. Now hardly a sliver peeks over the horizon, and Collie's dark hair catches in the wind. 

From up here, they can see everything. A large portion of the boys are playing a halfhearted game of basketball in the middle of the parking lot, though with no baskets and the amount of laughing they’re doing, Stebbins doubts they’re keeping score. At their vantage point, Stebbins can see: Harkness, June has joined him, the two rocking in unison; Art Baker, standing under the doorframe of his room, beckoning someone to follow him outside (knowing Olson, he probably won’t); Pete and Ray, reclining atop the roof of a derelict car with flat tires, talking, smiling; even Gary Barkovich, who’s further off, near the treeline, making good use of the flash on his camera. 

Stebbins feels cosmically lucky. This could’ve ended so much worse. He knows the details of what would’ve been reality very intimately, thanks to his extensive research. He had prepared himself for the moment all the boys began to keel over, yet it never came to fruition, at least not to the extent he imagined. He’s a little lost with what to do with himself now. 

Collie must share his sentiment. “I like it up here,” he says, muttering it out into the air, letting it get swept up by the wind. Only to be heard by Stebbins’s ears. 

“Yeah,” Stebbins agrees, “Feels a bit — god-like, no?”

Collie huffs exasperatedly, bordering on a laugh. “Guess so. Never thought about it like that,” He comments appreciatively. He pauses for a moment, looking down at the railing rather than the busy parking lot. “Y’know, putting all your cryptic bullshit aside, you’ve got such a bright mind.”

Stebbins scrutinizes Collie, finding no bitterness. Collie looks back up and points in the direction of the car. 

“…And I dunno if you’ve heard him as of late, but — McVries talks about Garraty like he hung the stars. Like…” He gestures out into the space in front of him as he’s trying to grab hold of something. 

“Like he’s a song himself. Like he’s mist. I don’t have that. That thing in your mind that sets you apart, makes all this horseshit into brilliance. I just don’t.” Collie says, looking defeated. His face scrunches in an odd, displeased way. 

“How can you be so sure?” Stebbins offers. Collie glances at him skeptically. “Sure sounds like you do,” Stebbins says, shrugging. 

“Well, maybe,” Collie pauses, “How am I ever supposed to find out? To explore…” He pivots, “I know it doesn’t seem like it. But I think I don’t know how not to be afraid. Of stuff like that at least. Isn’t that fucking ironic?” Collie pauses, smiling. “Big ol’ Collie is scared.”

Stebbins offers a sympathetic laugh. He understands what Collie means. Seeing all the viscera of the Walk makes the smaller, human stuff seem pointless and almost insurmountable all at once. 

“Fuck, I can’t wait to go home,” Collie continues, “I’m too tired for this poetic shit. And my feet fucking hurt.”

Stebbins lets out a real laugh, louder, bubbling up from his chest. He throws his head back and looks at the moon, half full and waxing. 

“Then go lie down, Collie. Nothing’s stopping you.” Stebbins assuages. 

Collie laughs, a small huff of air. “How’s all this so easy for you, Bill?” 

“‘Cause I don't have anything to lose anymore,” Stebbins thinks his dignity died out on the tarmac, or more accurately, here, in the motel lobby, when that sickness shook him. His father died on the tarmac, though. “Maybe it’s fucked, but I don’t care, not anymore. I sure did for a while there. But now… I can’t wait to live something real.”

Collie pushes away from the railing, and Stebbins looks back over his shoulder at him. “I told you I was too tired for poetic bullshit, Stebbins. Go bother McVries with that nonsense,” Collie says it like a compliment, squeezing Stebbins’ shoulder affectionately as he passes, retreating down the staircase. 

Stebbins realizes suddenly, like a throat punch, that he was granted a second chance. He doesn’t need his stoicism to keep him separate, to keep him sane. He won’t get to have his cup of tea, but he’ll get to go home to his Mom, have her sandwiches again. He has friends, a future. A chance to spread his wings.