Page 93 of The Last Hope
Gods, I hate that I’m wallowing. Letting my hair soak my shoulders, I stand and wander over to the bookshelf. I skim the spines with the soft brush of my fingers.
“And you seem to think that’s not long enough,” Stork says. I can feel his hot gaze on my back as he watches me from across the room, but I make an effort not to turn around and look.
“It isn’t.”
“And I’d say that’s a little odd coming from you.”
I snort. Okay, this time, I do turn to face him. “And why is that?” My voice sounds accusatory, like he’s called me a wartanda toad all at once.
He’s smiling. “Because you lived most of your life like a Fast-Tracker. I’d think that someone who thought they’d die at seventeen would believe a month is a long time.”
I open my mouth to combat, but shut it fast.
He’s right.
That clever wart is right.
A month is an awfully long time for Fast-Trackers. Zimmer would agree. We’ve both discussed our time in Bartholo, trying to unearth any familiar acquaintances. There was WytonFarcastle. A boy of fifteen years who built an entire ice fort in two weeks before he died.
Thoughts of Zimmer remind me that his deathday could be any upcoming week or month. He said he’d rather not share the date of his impending death, and I’ve found myself, on more than one occasion, wishing he’d live to be twenty-nine: the oldest age of a Fast-Tracker.
It’d give him ten more long years ahead.
Zimmer would believe I could swim an entire ocean by the end of a month.
But I’m just not so sure.
“A month is a long time,” I end up saying aloud, agreeing with this fact at least.
Stork rides his hoverboard over to me, and as the board slows to a standstill, he spreads his feet. “Try with me, Franny.”
I open my mouth, my pulse racing ahead of my thoughts. Dread coats my skin in a filmy layer of sweat. I’m unsurprised by his request, seeing as how he’s already attempted to curb my fear during training.
Back in the garden, Stork tried to coax me into climbing the ivy up the wall. He ascended the greenery, and only gripping the vines with one hand, he hung perilously off and waved me forward. “Climb up.” Stork smirked and made acome hithermotion.
I faltered and inhaled jagged breaths like I do now. Irate at myself, I stormed out. Reckless impulsions used to be a part of me. It used to beeasy,and I envy his carelessness. Able to shimmy up a vine without thinking,I will fall and die!
“Is riding the hoverboard for training purposes?” I outright ask.
“Maybe.” Stork rolls back on the hoverboard, and then scoots forward again as if to demonstrate how simple it is.
Maybe.
Maybe could mean a lot of different things. I’m not about totheorize what’s floating around in Stork’s head. He’s a riddle that refuses to be solved.
Gliding closer, he holds out a hand. “On the board.”
“I want to,” I admit, scrutinizing the floating platform beneath his bare feet. “It just looks…”
“Fun, exciting, thrilling—”
“Terrifying.” I swallow my speeding pulse. “You know you can’t die, but I could fall, hit my head, and be gone.”
His brows rise. “Or you could just do it. And worry about what happens later.”
“There is no later if I’m dead.”
“And you wouldn’t even think that if your feet were on this board.” He grins. “And anyway, pressed up against me, I’m positivedyingwould be the very last thing on your mind.”
