Save Point 14

Goran

I know the perfect hiding spot. I may need to tramp all the way through these woods to get there, but I know the place. Your frail body, even though relatively light, is getting heavy in my arms after the length of this trek. Even though my stats are pretty well endowed for a man of my age, my health bar is diminishing more than I would care for as thorns snag at my ankles, brush scrapes across my face and this forest seems never-ending as my arms strain to carry you, Rosie.

I check the red bar quickly to ensure that I won't have to use the small health pack I remember storing in the safe spot.

That pack is for you, Rosabella.

I grit my teeth, hoisting your body up once more in my arms.

It's not too much further; I hope you can hold on. You have to hold on.

...To be honest, I'm scared for you, Rosie.

Your face is scarily pale, nearly see-through like I can see every green and blue vein working to keep your body alive where the burns don't cover.

Bubbling.

Boiling burns.

Red and pusing.

Angry.

Your forehead is slick with sweat, caking strands of your hair to your cheeks and neck... And I swear you're shivering, your chin chattering up and down as I walk.

Look what they did to you.

Each of your shallow, shuttering breaths makes me hate myself. Why couldn't I have run faster? Gotten there sooner? Why couldn't I save you from all this pain?

But I know that, in reality, I should hate them.

This world did this to you.

The Game.

I could kill that dragon personally.

I will if I have something to say about it.

"Water," your chapped lips part to whisper; I have to strain to hear it.

Of course.

Water.

Of course, you're thirsty after nearly burning alive.

I will get you water, dear, just as soon as I lay your head down to rest somewhere safe—somewhere they can't track us and take you.

The willow tree is where I remember it—its sagging branches even larger than before, after all these years, laden with the weight of its own wispy greenery. Years ago, I used to admire the look of it...like a wise grandfather sitting amidst egotistical evergreens pointing up at the sky and not much else.

But, now, it just looks like a tree.

And a sigh of relief.

Because it's shelter for us.

My sneakers weave over the tree's massive root system—gnarled, shooting branches tangling the dense grass like the threads of a basket. I'm careful not to trip over them as I make my way to the glitch; I don't want to jostle you, Rosie.

"Just a little longer," I tell you, whispering into your hair, "Hold on."

And I swear I see your eyelids flutter in recognition.

Still holding you, I angle my body at the wall of the landscape behind the tree. I watch The Game flicker as I try and walk forward; the programing ends there.

I have to set you on the ground to do the next part. I carefully lay you in the lush grass, reaching in its matted tangles to find the handle for the trap door.

My fingers wrap around smooth wood.

Ah ha! Sucess.

I found it.

I swing the wood panel open, watching as the ground glitches into a square of darkness where the door opens.

And there's a ladder there.

Your mom and I built it back when this was our spot.

I heave you back into my arms and take the ladder down with slow, calculated movements.

One foot down one rung.

The raw rope scratching my palm that clutches it.

One more step.

Then, another.

My arms are nearly aching—shaking—from your weight when I reach the concrete floor below. I fumble in the dark, straining with everything in me to reach for the light switch that I know is on this side—

I find it.

Low light flickers to life, flooding the dark bunker. It's really just a concrete-walled room, a place your mother created for us to hide when we were little. But it'll more than do. Even back then, we stocked it with supplies in case of an emergency: a queen-sized bed made with extra blankets and leaning to one side due to a broken leg in the back...shelving stacked with food...a table that I'd stolen from one of the extra rooms when I was younger and two wobbling, non-matching chairs. I remembered the place...exactly as I'd left it when I'd last lived there with you as the entire Game world searched for us like hounds above ground.

You'd been too small to even write your name then, Rosie.

And I'd cared for you.

I'd made sure you survived.

Just like I'd promised your mother.

...It's colder down here than I remember. The stagnant air smells stale and of dampness. But that doesn't concern me now.

Only you do.

I rush to lay you down on the bed, taking care to place your head on the makeshift, square pillow. Your cheeks look shallow. I need to hurry.

The small health pack is where I left it on top of the nearby bookcase. I easily reach to grab it from its hidden location, my fingers wrapping around the leather.

And I lovingly tuck it between your two hands, crossed over your stomach on the bed.

And it disappears with a beep.

And your health bar glows red over your head, much repaired from before, though not even close to perfect:

It'll have to do for now.

I watch color flood into your face and most of the boils and redness on your skin dissipate.

Your breathing steadies.

Thank God.

And, almost as though you are an extension of myself, my breath steadies too.

Thank God you're okay, Rosie.

Tears well up in my eyes just looking at you laying there with your brown hair splayed out around you. I did it. I did okay.

Your eyelids flutter open like a lost princess surrounded by a world of dwarves. I watch your forehead crease as you notice your surroundings and the dark, close ceiling. Your eyes fill with confusion till you see me. You try a thin smile, but I can see you're worried still.

"You're safe, Rosie," I murmur, smoothing back your hair. "You're gonna be okay."

You nod like you know I'm right.

Of course, I'm right; I've never led you wrong before.

But your eyebrows crease again, and you open pale lips in question. "Tell me about Mom," you whisper.

My heart clenches.

Stops.

A request.

Your only request, and I can't honor it.

I bite down on my lip to keep an angry retort from slipping out. I shouldn't be mad at you; they messed with your mind. They've done this to you. They've already pitted you against me.

"Rest, dear," I urge you, "Your body needs rest."

It's my answer to the question. I won't—I can't.

I can't talk about your mother, Rosie. It brings me too much pain.

Your eyes fall closed and your face smooths once again with the peace of sleep.

The mattress creaks as I move to reach for a jug of water and a washcloth. The fabric is soft on my fingertips as I nudge enough water out of the clear jug and onto its fibers. I hesitantly take my place on the edge of the bed again, careful not to cause too much movement and wake you.

Tenderly, I trace the burns on your arm, trying to get the dirt out so they'll heal.

I do this not because I have to.

But because I want to.

You are everything to me, whether you know it or not.

But the simple movement of washing you lets my mind wander to a place I'd rather it doesn't. Before I can stop the movement, my mind focuses on the one person I try to keep it off: your mother.

She was Rosabella the Great for a reason.

The people loved her.

I can't talk about her, but I can think about her.

Tears sting at my eyes.

She loved me best—I know it. I know she loved me best. Her voice was a birdsong and her eyes, stars. We were friends all through my childhood; I'd had the biggest crush that only rolled into adulthood.

That night when I first kissed her and Ford didn't know...it was magical.

I remember her sparkling eyes, reflecting the moonlight under the very tree above us.

I remember her soft hands in my hair.

The way she whispered...

No, I won't remember what she whispered. Those words have stung me for an eternity.

And I remember the day you, Rosie, were born. The way your mother held you in her arms and waved me forward from the back of the room, insisting that I hold you.

And you were so small.

And soft in my hands.

And warm.

And I cradled you to me, knowing you were the perfect daughter.

And your mother told me.

She made me vow never to let anything happen to you.

I've tried my best to always live up to that promise.

And, suddenly, an idea dawns on me—a remembering.

Tomorrow is your birthday.

This is a special day.

I won't let you forget how special it is. I'll make you something—I'll make the day special. So, when you open your eyes, you'll know how loved you are.

How much I love you.

You'll open your eyes, and you'll remember.

I will do this for you.

And, instantly, my mind spins with a million ideas.

You'll need a cake, of course; I can make you one.

...And something that reminds you of home...

Will you be safe here while I get what I need to and sweep away any traces of the glitch so our pursuers can't find us? My eyes dart to your despondent form still asleep beside me on the bed.

Yes.

This is a grand idea.

You will love it.

You and I will be safe here together.

And you will have the best birthday I can give you in this place.

I move quickly—quietly.

I grab my knife and a backpack from the wall, and creep silently towards the ladder upward.

My steps on the rope are slow and careful.

I heave the trapdoor open, excitement replacing adrenaline in my sore muscles.

You're going to love this, and, maybe, it'll remind you how much you love me.

I snap the trapdoor into place behind me, and turn around, quickly threading a lock through the door's handle and into the ground where I remember steel is bolted below.

I turn the key in the lock, tugging on it to make sure it's secure.

All for you, Rosie.

Anything to keep you safe.