Free Unity by Jeremy Robinson Page B

the line like she’s reciting it from a manual I never got.
    “None of us have been paired,” Mandi says.
    Sneaky and snippy.
    Gwen leans over the shorter girl, hands on her hips. “The five of us were paired the moment we crashed on this island.”
    “We crashed?” Mandi says, looking confused, rubbing her head like she can smooth out the wrinkles, find her lost memory. But it’s not there. “I remember losing power. We survived, so it couldn’t have been too bad.”
    Someone got too many gold stars on their charts growing up.
    “Listen, Mandi,” I say, standing up and moving away from the field of dead, “the first time I laid eyes on you, she—” I point to Gwen, “—was carrying your butt out of a crashed transport, and then up a hillside away from a tsunami. And then up a tree. She saved your life more than once, and she’s been carrying you ever since, so I think you should drop the attitude and show her a little respect and thanks.”
    She reacts like I’ve just whipped out a butcher knife and stabbed her Teddy bear to death. And I nearly apologize, but then I remember she’s already seen and heard horrible things without reacting at all. My little scolding isn’t going to breach her defenses so easily.
    “Nice try, kid,” I say. “Not buying it.”
    She smiles at me and shrugs.
    I put a hand on my holstered gun and say, “There’s room in this field for one more.”
    It’s clear that she doesn’t take the threat seriously, but she groans, looks up at Gwen and says, “Thanks.” Before I can urge her to be a little more detailed, she looks at me and says, “And I don’t do apologies, so don’t bother.”
    “Mandi!” Daniel’s voice echoes again, and it makes me cringe. “You’re awake!” The boys are heading in our direction again.
    Mandi takes a step toward them, but I catch her arm. It’s tiny in my hand. Big attitude for such a small kid. “Not a word,” I say.
    She nods. “I won’t tell them. The boys are fragile. I’ll keep this a secret as long as you do your job.” She looks from my eyes, to the holstered gun and back again. Then she taps the Point symbol on my chest and yanks her arm away. She heads toward the boys again, on course to meet them half way, rubbing her head as she goes.
    “You know her well?” I ask.
    Gwen leans to the side, stretching the shoulder that has been bearing the brunt of the girl’s weight and boney hips. “Well enough. She says she never apologizes because she’s never wrong. She might even be right about that, but she’s got a pretty severe chip on her shoulder. Like you. But she’s okay—when she’s not on defense.”
    I grin at Gwen’s dig. “And what about me? Am I okay?”
    She gives me a half-smirk. “Still trying to figure that out.” She reaches out a hand to help me back up onto the concrete. It’s not a big step, but my fatigue must be showing. “C’mon, I got you.”
    I take her hand and am once again surprised by her resilient strength. But as she pulls me back up onto the landing pad, I slip into the past.
     
     
    “I got you,” he said.
    I’d never been a fan of obstacle courses. Life had enough hurdles. I didn’t want to jump, duck and dodge them for fun. Or exercise. And I certainly didn’t want to maneuver my way through one while being watched by adults with clipboards. Get it over with , I told myself, and I threw myself into it, trying to show the observers how inadequate their gauntlet was. When I reached the end, I was spent. I had wasted too much energy on the first 90% of the course, and I didn’t have much left to get me up the knotted rope hanging down from a twenty-foot-high, wooden wall.
    But I wasn’t about to show weakness now. Not ever. Adults can spot it. Take advantage of it. Feeling weak is normal. Showing it is a problem. So I heaved myself up the dry, oil-scented cable and grunted with each muscle pop. It would hurt for a week, but I didn’t care.
    The problem was, when I reached