The stick of smoked pheasant sags in my hand as I sit in front of the fire the masked man made for us. Somewhere in the back of my distant mind, I know I should eat. He is staring at me. Or at least, I think he is. It feels like he is. But my stomach will retch if I do. It already did once and every so often it flips like an Olympic-level gymnast.

I rub my bruised neck where the collar had been. My fingers inch up to my hairline and I feel a knot in my hair. I pull away to find red crusties all over my fingernails. When did I hit my head?

Probably when the chief hit me. My hands clench to fists as the struggle replays in my mind. The weight of his body trapping mine, the panic coursing through every cell in my body. Then I remember the sword in his chest. The blood.

But sitting here now, I hardly register the memory. I can see his body clear as day in my mind, but everything is numb, as if far away. It was the same for the others. When we stopped for the masked man to scavenge the dead, I felt nothing. Well, nothing until my stomach twisted, and I wretched its contents all over the edge of the bridge.

I hear a sound beside me and blink, dragging my mind back to the present. Something soft and heavy gets draped across my shoulders. A fur blanket? The weight of it draws back the frazzled strands of my mind and I pull it closer. The masked man reaches down to gently remove the uneaten stick of meat from my hands and I let him. I guess he figured out what I hadn’t yet: I won’t be eating anything tonight. His movements are slow and careful—like a handler approaching an abused shelter dog.

Maybe he hates me. I tried to apologize earlier for what happened back with the rope bridge but he said nothing in return. What did I say again? Maybe the words never actually left my mouth. Maybe I imagined it.

“Do you want me to leave?”

His words startle me. I forgot he could speak. This is the first time he spoke since that night with the raiders.

Do I want him to leave? The question bounces around my mind and I can’t seem to concentrate on it long enough to answer.

“I want…”

I look at him. Every inch of his skin is covered—hood drawn down, black scarf pulled up, and dark, red-rimmed goggles over his eyes. I hardly remember what his face looks like. I remember the bruises and the swollen eye but that's it.

“I want to see your face.”

The words slip out faster than I can think to stop them. Why do I care? I don’t, I think. But I welcome the distraction, otherwise my mind will cycle through the events from earlier today for the hundredth time.

Moments pass, and when I start to wonder if he heard me, he takes a seat an arm’s length away, cross-legged, arms relaxed, hands resting in his lap as he faces me. Waiting. For what? I stare for a long moment.

Oh.

He’s waiting for me. He wants me to unmask him.

My stomach does another twist, or maybe it’s less of a twist and more of a flip. Why me? That dark, soulless, goggled stare takes me back to hours earlier and I remember the blood. The death. But then I see something else. Something deadly, something dangerous. A panther who, instead of sinking its teeth deep, closes its eyes, rolls over, and exposes its belly at my feet, offering itself willingly.

Suddenly, I want to. And slowly, an odd feeling stretches across my chest as I reach out, pausing midway. My fingers tremble. Am I scared? In the shadow of this morning’s terror, nothing can scare me. Or maybe it’s this aching emptiness settled deep in my gut emboldening me. I glance between my fingers and those empty goggles. He says nothing, so I don’t either.

I pull away the scarf hiding his lower face, revealing a strong jaw sporting several days’ worth of stubble. He has a good nose, probably the type movie stars paid too much money for once upon a time. I reach for the hood next and reveal a head of thick, wavy black hair that reaches just over his ears. Finally, I remove those awful aviator goggles, so darkly tinted I wonder how he can see at all.

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His eyes are round and handsome and peculiar. One is blue, the other brown. A thin white scar trails down one eyebrow, ending at the corner of his jaw and giving him a hard edge. I would guess he’s maybe six years older than me as I stare at his face. A face you don’t easily forget, the kind that pulls your gaze and doesn’t let go.

But now he’s staring back at me, and this time I know for certain. It sends a prickle racing across my skin. Last time, his face was barely recognizable. Black eyes, busted lips, and black and blue all over. The raiders had beaten him to a pulp, and after a week and a half, you would never know.

“Why do you hide your face?” I ask.

“Do you want me to leave?”

He repeats his question from earlier and I feel torn. Part of me screams yes. Screams to be left alone. Why should I trust anyone, especially a man, in a world like this? But the other part of me stares at the person who saved my life not once, but twice. Both times—undeserved.

“If I say yes, would you actually leave?”

I see it then, but only because he sits so close. Pain in his eyes.

“Yes.”

And I feel it. The brokenness in that one word. He means it. With his face bare, his feelings flash like a bright neon sign.

“Really?” I press. “What changed? You were pretty determined back on that rope bridge.”

“I was wrong before. I…” He hesitates, gaze falling away with a frown. “I was so caught up in what I wanted and what I feared. I wasn’t listening.”

My heart tightens in my chest. A cold breeze rustles the leaves on the ground and the fire flickers to embers beside me. The last vestiges of sunlight slip below the horizon as night settles in.

“What you wanted?” I repeat his words thoughtfully. “So then, what is it you want?”

He looks up to meet my eyes. “I may not know you, but I know this world. There is an evil here that consumes people—it changes them. It changed me. I do not want to see another person fall to it.”

“You think I’ll change?”

As the words leave my mouth, I remember him falling on that rope bridge. Disappearing through the fog. I feel a familiar numbness crouching there. An emptiness. I wrap my arms around my middle.

“Why should I believe that is all you want?” I ask.

He looks away, thoughtful for a moment, before standing and taking something out of the saddle on his mount. It is a silver handgun with a silencer extending from the barrel. He must have scavenged it from the bodies earlier. He holds it out, offering me the handle.

I give him a wary glance.

“If I give you any reason at all to doubt me, use this,” he says.

I take it carefully, checking it as my uncle taught me a lifetime ago. Clicking the safety off, I hold it up, pointing at a tree across our campsite, and pull the trigger.

Pfft!

The handle of the gun punches my palms and the nose jerks up. I almost forgot what the kickback of a nine-millimeter feels like. A small scatter of bark reveals I hit my target.

The man watches me, maybe trying to decide if I will shoot him. I push the safety back on and place the gun on the ground beside me.

“You know, giving a gun to a stranger is a pretty dangerous move. If I was crazy I could shoot you for fun,” I say.

For the first time, he cracks a smile and my brain short circuits. It looks good on him, too good. Dangerously good.

“I guess you could.”

I clear my throat, tearing my eyes away and back to the fire. “Hey, that wasn’t a joke. You don’t know me, what if I am a crazy person?”

The smile fades as seriousness takes over but his eyes still twinkle. “What you did back at that raider’s base was pretty crazy.”

It was. But saving him turned out to be the best decision of my life—so far, anyways. It’s still up for debate what happens next.

“I guess that makes us both crazy then. Because one against over a dozen men on that bridge back there? Pretty crazy if you ask me.”

His eyes sparkle in reply and he stands, going over to the other side of the campsite and disappearing up into a tree. Probably to keep watch.

With the sun having set long ago, the coldness of night creeps in. I inch toward the remaining embers, pulling the fur blanket around my shoulders closer, and fiddle with pieces of his mask sitting beside me. The scarf has two frayed edges, as though torn from something else. The goggles are worn, and the leather ties are soft and well-used. I put the goggles on and they sit loosely on my head. Surprisingly, I can still see through them despite the dark tint. I keep them on as I hug my knees and stare into the fire. For the first time that day, my mind is free of that endless loop of horror. Instead, I close my eyes and think about the man up in the trees. About when I saw him by the pool. How quick he was to flee, and again of seeing him down in that pit. All beat up and broken.

And the bridge. The snap of the rope as it fell, his form disappearing below the fog only to reappear again on the other side. The relief I felt even then to see he survived.

I relax and let exhaustion ease through my mind. The fur blanket is soft and the coals are warm and for the first time in a long time I feel some semblance of safety. I might regret it in the morning but for now I’m going to let myself sleep.