“Wells…” Sasha called his name hoarsely. He ran over and grabbed her other hand, interlocking his fingers with hers.
“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
They stayed just like that as the minutes went by. Clarke stood off to the side, at the ready in case Sasha needed more painkillers. Bellamy stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her. Wells held vigil on Sasha’s right side, holding her hand and brushing her hair back from her forehead. Max held her other hand and leaned down to whisper in her ear. Tears streamed from his eyes onto her cheeks. Sasha’s breathing slowed and became intermittent. Her body was shutting down, and they stood by as witnesses, powerless to stop it.
If Wells could’ve reached into his chest and ripped out his own heart to replace her fading one, he wouldn’t have hesitated. That pain couldn’t be any worse than what he was feeling right now. With each labored breath, Wells’s own chest tightened, until he was sure he would black out. But he didn’t. He stayed just where he was, his eyes locked on Sasha, taking in everything from her long, trembling lashes to the freckles he loved so much. The freckles he’d thought would be a part of his life forever, as constant as the stars.
He might’ve only known her for a few weeks, but his whole life had changed in that time. When he’d met her, he’d been lost and scared, pretending to be in control but really feeling like a fraud. She’d believed in him; she’d helped him become the leader he was always meant to be, and served as an example for him to follow—showing him what it really meant to be brave, selfless, and noble.
“I love you,” he whispered, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, and finally her lips. He exhaled, wishing more than anything that he could pass his breath into her body. He would’ve gladly taken a thousand bullets if it meant Sasha could have escaped just this one. If it meant he could have spared Max this pain. And he knew he would never, ever forgive himself or the men who had done this to her.
Sasha let out one gasp, then her breathing stopped. Clarke broke away from Bellamy and ran over to start performing CPR while Max and Wells looked on in silent agony. After the longest few minutes of Wells’s life, Clarke brought her head to Sasha’s chest, held it there a moment, and looked up, tears streaming down her face.
“No,” Wells moaned, unable to meet Clarke’s face, unable to look at Max. It was over.
Someone—maybe Bellamy—put an arm around him, but Wells could barely feel it. All he could feel was the weight crushing his chest, as his rib cage caved in on itself. And then everything went black.
CHAPTER 20
Glass
Luke was burning up with fever. Glass could tell just by looking at him. His eyes were glassy, and although his face was flushed, his lips were dry and gray. She racked her brain for all the things her mom used to do when she was sick as a little kid. She put a wet cloth on Luke’s forehead. She uncovered him and took off his shirt, letting the cool air from the window wash over his sleeping body. She sat him up every couple of hours and tipped a cup of water to his lips, urging him to drink. But there was nothing she could do about the horrible wound on his leg.
The spear had cut Luke deeply. Glass had almost fainted when she dragged him inside, laid him out on the floor, and ripped open the leg of his pants to see it. Through the blood and dirt, she saw startlingly white bone.
For the first hour, she and Luke had taken turns trying to stop the bleeding by tightening a tourniquet around his upper thigh, but nothing had worked. Glass watched in horror as Luke grew pale and the wooden floor became slick with blood.
“I think I need to cauterize it,” he said, clearly trying to keep his voice calm even though his eyes were large with fear and pain.
“What does that mean?” Glass asked, as she tossed a blood-stained bandage aside and reached for another strip of cloth.
“If I apply enough heat, it’ll stop the bleeding and prevent infection.” He nodded toward the glowing embers in the fireplace. “Can you add some more wood and get it going again?”
Glass hurried over and threw a few smaller pieces of kindling into the dying fire, holding her breath as she watched them ignite. “Now grab that metal thing,” Luke said, pointing at the long, thin tool they’d found leaning against the fireplace the first night. “If you place it directly in the flame, it should get hot enough to do the trick.”
Glass had said nothing, but watched in growing horror as the metal began to turn red. “Are you sure about this?” she said hesitantly.
Luke nodded. “Bring it over here. Just be careful not to touch it.” Glass walked over and knelt down slowly next to Luke. He took a deep breath. “Now, on the count of three, I need you to press it against the wound.”
Glass started to tremble, the room suddenly spinning around her. “Luke, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He winced as a new wave of pain washed over him. “It’s okay. Just give it to me.”
“Oh God,” Glass whispered as she passed Luke the still-glowing piece of metal and squeezed his other hand. His skin was somehow both cold and covered in sweat.
“Don’t look,” he said, gritting his teeth. A moment later, he screamed as a sickening sizzle filled her ears along with the smell of burning flesh. Sweat poured from his forehead, and his scream felt never-ending, but he didn’t stop. With a final grunt, he threw the metal off to the side, where it clattered to the floor and rolled away.
For a little while, it seemed like the drastic move had worked. The wound stopped bleeding, and Luke was able to get a few hours of rest. But by the next morning, the fever set in. Now his entire leg was hot, red, and puffy. The infection was spreading. Periodically Luke would wake up for a moment, shudder in pain, and then lapse back into unconsciousness. Their only hope was making it back to camp and finding Clarke, but the odds of that were slimmer than Luke making a miraculous recovery. He couldn’t stand, let alone walk for two days. And the Earthborns were still out there, watching them. She could sense their presence as strongly as she could feel the heat radiating off Luke’s skin.
Glass had never felt this alone, not even during her long months in Confinement. At least there she saw her bunkmate or the guards, and someone brought her food. But here, with Luke unconscious and the constant threat of another attack hanging over her, Glass was both isolated and terrified. There was no one to call for help. Glass kept one eye on Luke, and one eye on the woods surrounding the cabin. She listened so hard her head hurt, straining to catch the slightest snapping of a single twig—anything that would warn her if they came back.