Chapter 43

When Solomon woke up, he could tell it had been much longer than fifteen minutes. From how much better he felt, it had to have been hours. They were still in the subway car, in the same seats, only Wilson was slumped over. Solomon blinked. They’d both been sleeping at the same time? Why hadn’t Wilson woken him up? He was usually pretty strict about security.

A chill ran down Solomon’s spine as he looked at Wilson. He was breathing; Solomon could see his chest rising and falling, but it was short, fast, and labored, and he seemed paler than usual. “Sam,” Solomon whispered, putting his hand on Wilson’s arm. The man didn’t respond. “Sam!”

A sudden crackle echoed through the subway car, through some sort of speaker system. “Folks, we apologize for the inconvenience. This train will be discontinued at the next station due to maintenance work. Please gather your belongings and exit the train. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Startled by the announcement, Solomon glanced around and realized that everyone was starting to stir. There were a lot more people on the train than there had been when they’d first gotten on. One of them was cursing, rolling his eyes, but most of the passengers were silent. His heart began pounding. Was this maintenance work a lie? An excuse to arrest them? No, that didn’t make sense. They weren’t important enough to make up a whole scenario for. Right? He wanted to ask Wilson, but he was still slouched over, not responding. “Sam,” Solomon said again, shaking his shoulder this time. “We have to get off the train. They’re saying there’s some maintenance issue. Wake up!”

At that, Wilson blinked, his eyelids opening slightly as he muttered something. Solomon couldn’t catch it with the noise of the train screeching to a halt. He tried to think through how he was going to do this. He looped the laundry bag’s handles over his left hand, then put his right arm around Wilson’s torso and hauled him to his feet. Thankfully, Wilson wasn’t so far gone that Solomon had to literally carry him, because he didn’t think he could, and so he was able to half-drag him out of the doors, the rush of the other passengers sweeping past them.

Frantically scanning the platform, his eyes fell on a nearby bench. Every spot was once again taken up, so he propped Wilson up against the wall a few steps away. Wilson’s body sagged backward, his head resting heavily on his chest, his eyes closed. No, no, Solomon wanted to shout at him. Don’t you dare quit on me!

In a flash, he realized that what he was feeling now had to be exactly what Wilson had felt toward him when they’d first arrived in the camps. Remembering that, he crouched down and tried to think. What could he do? What was wrong with Wilson? He was more than just tired; he was sick, but from what? It could be anything!

And then Solomon remembered. Hadn’t he read something at one point about concentration camp survivors dying after being fed by American GIs? He racked his brains, trying to recall what else he’d read about them, but he couldn’t remember any other details. He wished he had a phone; he could look this up, he could ask a bot search agent in a heartbeat. But he didn’t, and he had no idea how to help Wilson. All he could do was try to think through how Wilson’s body might be being affected. He wasn’t eating, he must have adjusted to the lack of nutrients, and then all of a sudden, he had to metabolize them. His body’s chemistry must be getting messed up. How long does he have?

Solomon was trying to frantically piece together a plan when Wilson suddenly convulsed forward, doubling over as he vomited uncontrollably. Solomon caught him, holding him steady as he emptied his stomach onto the platform. People glanced at them then looked away, not saying anything.

What could Solomon give to Wilson to help him? Fruit juice, maybe. That was all they had that contained electrolytes. Pulling out one of the orange juice cartons he’d stolen, he uncapped it. Wilson’s eyes were open but he looked disoriented. He wouldn’t lift his hand to take the carton, so Solomon had to push him back against the wall and bring it to his lips. Wilson took a sip, then closed his eyes again.

Solomon spent the next hour kneeling next to Wilson and his puddle of vomit, coaxing him to take more. They had not gotten this far only for Wilson to die. He finally got Wilson to finish the carton, but as soon as he was done, he slumped back against the wall. Solomon wanted to get him out of there but didn’t know where to go. Wilson was the expert on the blue zone, not him. All he knew was that every time someone even glanced their way, he felt a spike of fear that it was the police who’d been warned by the counselors in the re-education camp about their escape.

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The longer they stayed in one place, the more likely it was they’d be recaptured. God, he couldn’t bear the thought of returning. It was only a punishment cell waiting for them and a quick trip to the hard labor camps, and with the state Wilson was in, he was sure the man wouldn’t last. It would be Solomon going by himself.

Before he knew it, he was on his feet. The station was a busy one; he could melt into the crowd in a moment. He wasn’t suffering from whatever had hit Wilson – maybe eating the hotel kitchen food waste for several months had increased his caloric intake enough so that his metabolism had readjusted in time. He could find his way out.

He could leave Wilson behind.

Solomon stood there for what felt like a long time, holding his swollen left hand with his right, looking at Wilson huddled against the wall. Memories flooded his mind. He remembered Wilson under the Schenley Oval Tent in the leftover April winter, answering his questions about processing centers until the sun went down. He remembered Wilson sending him to sick bay, now knowing that it was to keep him from something worse. He remembered Wilson grinning at him right before he jumped out of the airplane to parachute into the blue zone. He remembered Wilson grabbing him by the back of his neck and swearing that he’d get him out of the camp. He remembered Wilson putting a mulberry in his hand and telling him to eat it.

They weren’t all good memories. He remembered Wilson repeatedly hitting him on the side of his head when he’d broken down crying at boot camp. He remembered Wilson ordering him to do push-ups, then stepping on his fingers as he did them, taunting him all the while about how worthless he was. He remembered during a phase when they had to have their rifles on them at all times, Wilson beating the crap out of him for something or other, and him being so brainwashed that even as he was being pummeled, all Solomon could think of was how he’d better not drop his rifle. He remembered how every time Wilson came near him, he’d tense up in anticipation of abuse.

Solomon understood, though, that from Wilson’s perspective, there’d been no other way. Solomon understood that the harshness was supposed to make you stronger, initiate you into a group, turn you into a man. And it had. It had worked on Solomon. He wouldn’t go back and change how boot camp had gone down. But he wouldn’t want to go through it again, either, not at Wilson’s hands.

The memories bled together in his mind, shifting and mixing. Wilson was the reason he hadn’t frozen to death in the camp. Wilson was the reason he’d been sent to the camp at all.

So what did Solomon owe him? Why shouldn’t he leave now and try to return to Adah as he’d promised her he would? Hadn’t he asked her to go through enough already? She had to be crazy with worry, not having heard from him for over a year. She had to be afraid he was dead. But he wasn’t. Didn’t he owe it to her to make it back? If there was anything he had learned from this last year, it was that the young were the most vulnerable, and that was what Adah was: young and without protection. Why should he give what protection he had to offer to Wilson when he could give it to Adah instead, who had never hurt him and needed it so much more?

Slowly, Solomon crouched back down on the floor next to Wilson. In the end, the question wasn’t what he owed Wilson or what he owed Adah, but what he owed God, and although he wasn’t that good at sensing His direction, there was a still, small sense in him that made him think God didn’t want him to abandon Wilson right then.

Despite the stakes. Despite the consequences.

Solomon mustered what little strength he had left and, with his only functioning hand, pulled Wilson to his feet so that Wilson’s arm was slung over his neck. Hobbling under Wilson’s weight, he stumbled to an elevator he had noticed earlier. When it took them straight to the surface, and they stepped out of the box-like car into the hot afternoon sun, he let out a long, shaky breath, the warmth on his face a welcome contrast to the underground chill.

Solomon wasn’t sure where to go next, but while he was scanning for threats or for anyone approaching them, he noticed there were other people who looked as terrible as they did wandering the streets. One of them, maybe a woman, was moving with slightly more purpose than the others, so he decided to follow her. Thankfully she was still pretty slow, so he was able to half-drag, half-carry Wilson down the crowded sidewalk without losing her.

His instincts were right. Pretty soon, he saw up ahead some green space covered with tents, like the encampment in the transit prison except with no barbed wire surrounding it. Exhausted from the effort of hauling Wilson along, he nearly stumbled as he finally put Wilson down on the grass. He took a deep breath, enjoying the release in his muscles. Then it was time to go again, to pull Wilson deeper into the tent city where he was pleased to see that everyone around them looked like re-education camp escapees, and that a good many of them were also passed out on the mud-trampled ground. They fit right in.

Now there was nothing left he could do for Wilson but pray. And so he did. He prayed for healing, for God to fix whatever was wrong with Wilson, but after he was done, he found himself feeling empty.

No, not empty, angry. He felt angry. And not just angry, either. He was furious.

It took Solomon a moment to realize that he was furious at God.