Page 32 of Trade
He’s standing, too, shoulders squared, chest rising. “No scrounger did that.”
“What makes you think they wouldn’t? They’d kill you. Take me. You said so.”
“No man would hurt a woman. Do you know what you’re worth?”
“A hundred barrels of oil,” I snap back, hysteria edging the bitter satisfaction in my voice as I land the point.
“Exactly,” he shoots right back.
We’re panting, glaring at each other, furious.
Well, I’m furious. The muscles in his neck strain, and his nostrils flare. It looks like anger—it would be on Bennett or any man in the bunker—but Dalton isn’t pacing or gesturing or even raising his voice. His boots are planted in place, even though he clearly wants to move. His eyes flash, and he’s breathing hard, but he keeps his arms very intentionally loose at his sides. He’s not restraining himself. He’sbracing. Because I’m attacking him.
Of course, Outsiders hurt us.
But what if they didn’t?
Cecily’s voice echoes in my mind.When they open the door, do what they say. Don’t fight them.What if she didn’t mean when they opened the door to push you out? What if she meantwhen they let you back in?
A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach. It’s too horrible.
As horrible as pushing a person you’ve known all your lives out of the bunker to be raped?
It can’t be true. My brain grasps wildly for proof. “You broke the rules. No talking. No giving me things. Give me back when you’re done.”
Dalton says quietly, the edge in his voice almost gone, replaced with the gruffness he had at first, “We’re not done yet. Are we, Glory?” He’s really asking.
“You’ve killed people? For oil?”
“I’ve fought people to keep what belongs to me.”
“And you killed them?”
“If I had to.”
I feel so alone, so lost and confused, like my ability to know what’s true and what’s right has been broken beyond repair. “But you won’t hurt me?”
“No.”
“And you won’t let anyone else hurt me?”
“Never.” He doesn’t put any extra sincerity in his voice like Bennett does when I have a moment of insecurity. Dalton answers the questions like I’m quizzing him or like he’s making a report. Did you mulch the orange trees?No.Did Food Service say when they’d have more eggshells for the fertilizer?Never. No more or less than the facts as he knows them.
I sink back to my butt. Slowly, Dalton lowers himself to the grass. We watch each other warily.
I lie back down. He turns his head to watch the fire.
The embers crackle and spit. Strange animals call out in the night.
I rest my head on my outstretched arm and my other hand near the knife.
“If I had known it wasn’t a trade, I wouldn’t have done it,” he says, gruff and grudging.
I can’t see his eyes, only his tight jaw and rigid shoulders.
“Nothing is the way I thought it was,” I say to his back. Maybe because it makes me anxious to think he’s mad at me, and I feel compelled to ease his mind somehow. Maybe because he’s the only person I can tell.
I fall asleep thinking of what I should say next, and whenever I wake up, he’s there—leaning against his pack, drowsing or poking the fire or staring at me.
