Jesus.
I’ve got no choice but to play dirty.
I’m not good enough to shoot, while running, at a moving target I can’t see—I’m not Warner, for God’s sake—so my childish backup plan will have to suffice.
I chuck the gun. Hard. Give it everything I’ve got.
It’s a clean throw, solid. All I need is a stumble. A single, infinitesimal moment of hesitation. Anything to give me an edge.
And when I hear it—a brief, surprised intake of air— I launch myself forward with a cry, and tackle him to the ground.
Ten
“What . . . the hell?”
I must be hallucinating. I better be hallucinating.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh my God, I’m so sorry—”
I try to push myself up, but I threw myself forward with everything I had, and I nearly knocked myself out in the process. I’ve barely got enough strength left to stand. Still, I manage to shift myself a little to the side and, when I feel the damp grass against my skin, I remember that I’m not wearing a shirt.
I swear loudly.
This night could not possibly get worse.
But then, in the space of half a second, my mind catches up to my body and the force of understanding—of realization—is so intense that it nearly blinds me. Anger, hot and wild, surges through me, and it’s enough to propel me up and away from her. I stumble backward, onto the ground, and hit my head against a tree trunk.
“Son of a—” I cut myself off with an angry cry.
Nazeera scrambles backward.
She’s still planted on the ground, her eyes wild, her hair loose, coming free of its tie. I’ve never seen her look so terrified. I’ve never seen her look so paralyzed. And something about the pained look in her eyes takes the edge off my anger.
Just the edge.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I cry. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she says, and drops her face in her hands.
“You’re sorry?” I’m still shouting. “You’re sorry? I could’ve killed you.”
And even then, even in this horrible, unbelievable moment, she has the audacity to look me in the eye and say: “I doubt that.”
I swear to God, my eyes go so wide with rage I think they split my face open. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with this woman.
No fucking clue.
“I—I don’t even—” I flounder, fighting for the right words. “There are so many reasons why you should be, like, shipped off on a one-way ticket to the moon right now, I don’t even know where to start.” I run my hands through my hair, grabbing fistfuls. “What were you thinking? Why—why—” And then, suddenly, something occurs to me. A cold, sick feeling gathers in my chest and I drop my hands. Look at her.
“Nazeera,” I say quietly. “Why were you in my room?”
She pulls her knees to her chest. Closes her eyes. And only when I can no longer see her face—when she presses her forehead to her knees—does she say: “I honestly think this might be the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.”
My muscles go slack. I stare at her, stunned, confused, angrier than I’ve been in years. “I don’t understand.”
She shakes her head. Just keeps shaking her head. “You weren’t supposed to wake up,” she says. “I thought you’d sleep through the night. I just wanted to check on you—I wanted to make sure you were okay because it was all my fault and I felt—I felt so awful—”
I open my mouth. No words come out.
“—but then you woke up and I didn’t know what to do,” she says, finally lifting her head. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”
“Bullshit,” I say, cutting her off. “Bullshit you didn’t know what to do. If you were really in my room because you were worried about my welfare, you could’ve just said hi to me, like a normal person. You’d say something like, ‘Oh, hello Kenji, it’s me, Nazeera! I’m just here to make sure you’re not dead!’ and I’d say ‘Gee, thanks, Nazeera, that’s so nice of you!’ and you’d—”
“It’s not that simple,” she says, shaking her head again. “It’s just— It wasn’t that simple—”
“No,” I say angrily. “You’re right. It’s not that simple.”
I get to my feet, dust off my hands. “You want to know why? You want to know why it’s not that simple? Because your story doesn’t add up. You say you came into my room to check on me—because you claim to be concerned about my health—but then, the first chance you get, you kick a sick man in the back, knock him to the floor, and then make him chase you through the woods with no shirt on.