Free The Five by Robert McCammon Page B

shoulder here, a touch on the elbow there, a leaning-in, a nod, a comment that urged a laugh. Maybe her real offering was human kindness, he thought, which also quenched thirst.
    He knew that, in her own way, she was giving them the strength they needed to keep going.
    And the thing was…the thing was…she didn’t pause in her work to get her own drink, though she was surely parched and thirsty like all the others. She had decided she was going to give everyone else their water first, and she would be the last to take one for herself.
    Maybe it was just a small sacrifice, on this brutally hot day. Maybe it didn’t mean much, really, but a sacrifice of any kind wasn’t something Nomad saw very often.
    “Let’s saddle up, people!” George said, about to climb behind the wheel.
    “You guys ready?” Terry asked.
    “No,” Nomad answered. “I’m not ready yet.”
    He was fascinated by the scene before him. How the girl—maybe fifteen or sixteen?—picked everyone up as they came past her. It seemed so effortless for her, and so important. Everyone got a few seconds of undivided attention. They were not rushed along. Most of them carried their own canteens, or half-empty water bottles pushed into pockets of work-aprons, but it was clear that they wanted— needed , maybe—water from the girl at the well.
    He was struck by the desire to see her face. He had the feeling that if he did not see her face, he might never again have the chance. And then he asked himself what the big deal was. It was just a young Hispanic girl in a floppy straw hat giving people water. So what?
    But he wanted to see her face, because he had the feeling that he would see in it a beauty he had forgotten existed.
    “Will you dumb-asses move it?” Berke had gotten out and was standing next to the Scumbucket, one hand on her hip and the other holding her own bottle of water, which had about two good swallows left in it. The children had retreated a few paces. “You want to get heat stroke?”
    “We’re coming,” Ariel said, but she did not leave Nomad’s side.
    And then the last person got his cup filled and went to join the workers who sat on the ground under the oak tree talking with each other and eating their lunches, and the girl at the well dipped her ladle into the pail and looked directly at the band members.
    She held the ladle toward them, offering a drink.
    No one moved or spoke for a few seconds, and then Mike said, “Well, shit, I’ll get me some if she’s givin’ it out.” He walked forward.
    “It might not be clean,” Ariel warned.
    Mike said, “Hey, I was raised on well water. Didn’t stunt my growth too bad.” He nodded a greeting to the women who’d brought the food and cups, and took one of the cups from the table. Then he walked to the well, said, “ Buenos dias ,” to the girl and held out his cup. Nomad saw the girl say something to Mike as she filled it, but it was spoken so quietly Nomad could not hear. Mike swigged the water down and came back to the group.
    “It’s cold ,” he said. “She says to tell you everybody’s welcome, and not to be afraid.”
    “Afraid of what?” Nomad asked. He watched the girl, who seemed to be waiting for them. She still had not taken a drink herself.
    “I don’t know. That it’s not clean, I guess.”
    “I think we’d better stick to bottled,” said Ariel.
    “Hey, we’re cooking over here!” Berke came closer. “What the fuck’s wrong with you guys?”
    “Let me wash my mouth out,” Nomad said.
    He took Mike’s cup and approached the girl.
    She dipped the ladle anew and held it out for him. He could not make out her face in the shadow of her straw hat, only the shape of a face. As he got nearer, he took off his sunglasses so he could see what she looked like, but even then he only caught the shine of her eyes.
    And then within reach of her he abruptly stopped, because something that was not fear but was very close to fear had shot through him and he