August was in and out of fevered deliria for close to a week. Forcing him to eat small amounts and keep hydrated was a vexing struggle, but somehow I got it done. His wounds offered a certain amount of concern as well, especially his leg when it started to show signs of infection. I ticked down the list of everything Tia and Lucille and Jim and Esme taught me, and managed to reduce inflammation. The infection was avoided, but probably by luck. August was strong, anyway. His body wouldn’t do anything he didn’t give it permission to do.

            My body was an exhausted wreck. One morning I tried to shower, but it was too painful, and so I disregarded the notion entirely. Turned out I was more hurt from that Prophet beat-down than I originally concluded. Not a big deal, I supposed. I would take care of it later.

            On about the tenth day of being in his old house—by this time I’d cleaned basically everything and made a risky trip to the local market for food, just in case we would be there for a while—August began to look normal. His wounds healed rapidly and correctly. One afternoon, when I entered to try and wake him up again to feed him lunch, his eyes were already open. They stopped me short in the doorway, the tray of chicken and celery soup held tightly between my fingers. We stared at each other, many unsaid things passing between us. August was back. Not the August in pain or delirious. Just normal August Masterson.

            Breathing deeply, I forced my feet to keep moving, until the tray was on his bedside table and I was perched in the chair by his bed. With some difficulty he pushed himself to a sitting position, shaking his head when I offered to help. He settled against the pillows, releasing a long sigh, and closed his eyes for a moment.

            “You’re probably stiff,” I murmured, reaching for the Tylenol and popping two in my hand. “Here, take some.”

            He did so without complaint, tossing them back with the glass of lukewarm water sitting by the burnt-out candle. I would have to replace it later.

            August didn’t say anything for a moment. He caught sight of my makeshift sleeping area; the pillows and rumpled afghan. His jaw worked back and forth, fingers flexing in his lap. “You slept on the floor,” he noted, voice hoarse.

            I tucked hair behind my ear. “Yes.”

            He didn’t look at me. “You could have slept in the bed.”

            “That’s okay.”

            Another awkward silence.

            “You must be hungry,” I said, grabbing the tray and setting it in his lap, not giving him a choice on the matter. He grabbed the spoon and slurped down some of the soup, licking his lips.

            “Good,” he said.

            “Thank you.”

            “Did you stitch my leg?”

            “Yeah.”

            He winced. “And my side?”

            “Yes.”

            “Thanks.”

            For some reason I had to look away, focusing on my fingers. “You don’t have to thank me, August,” I whispered. “You never have to thank me.”

            That lapsed into more silence, punctuated by the sounds of him eating his soup. Must have been ten minutes we sat there, and when he finished I grabbed the tray and set it to the side, hesitantly rising to my feet.

            “I need to look at your injuries,” I told him. “Make sure everything is okay.”

            “Okay,” he said.

             His eyes didn’t waver from my face, making my insides melt and my hands tremble. I pulled down the blanket, revealing his bare torso. The bruises looked especially ugly, letting me know they were healing. I perched on the side of the bed, close to him, pressing my fingers gently into his ribs. “Does this hurt?”

            He swallowed hard. “No,” he lied.

            “Does it hurt to breathe?”

            “No.”

            I cut my gaze to his. “I wish you wouldn’t lie to me.”

            “I’m not—goddammit, Ellie! What the hell was that for?”

            He referred to the especially harsh way I pushed against his chest. Easing back, I said, “You had a broken rib. Maybe two. It’s supposed to hurt, Augie. You don’t have to lie to me. You don’t have to keep up your defenses in front of me.”

        I pushed the covers the rest of the way off, inspecting his leg, overwhelmingly thankful it remained uninfected. I cleaned around the wound to discourage bacteria build-up, and draped the blanket over his lower body again.

            “You’re probably tired,” I murmured, turning away. “I’ll let you sleep.”

            His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. “Ellie.”

            Electricity bolted up my arm, making me shudder. “What?”

            “Stay.”

            “August—”

            “We need to talk.”

            That was inevitable. And true. There was definitely an elephant in the room and I would be more than happy to clear it out. “Are you sure?”

            “Pretty sure.”

            A harsh breath blew passed my lips, and I plopped back down in the chair, staring at our connected hands. His large hand easily engulfed my smaller one. The bandage wrapped around his palm was rough against my skin. Feeling guilt and shame burn through me again, I tugged my hand away, breaking contact.

            “You were dead,” he whispered. “And now you’re here. You’re alive.”

            I nodded. “Yeah.”

            “How?”

            Now or never. “After you left, I did just what you said. I got on a bus and headed for this place; for Blue Springs, Missouri. But on the way the Prophets jumped the bus. I was the only survivor.”

            Remembering was poison. Remembering was cruel.

            Sometimes, I hated remembering.

            “It was Angel. She captured me, and . . . And I met my mother, August. My mother.” My eyes moistened, obscuring my vision. “She told me so much. That . . . That my father was this crazy, evil genius, and impregnated her with me as the guinea pig of his experiment. And—Angel! Angel wasn’t evennormal, August. She isn’t human. He createdher. From me. And my mother . . . She told me my father—his name is Dr. Edmund; Dr. Carlton Edmund—she told me he’s planning to do such horrible things, but I don’t know for sure. And she told me the only way to stop them was to escape and train and prepare, and the only way she could escape was if I was dead, and—”

            “And so you faked your death,” August finished, eyes narrowed as his gears churned.

            I nodded. “Yeah.”

            “How?”

            “There’s this—she had this liquid, and if she injected it into my heart, it made it stop beating. And I had to cut myself with glass and make myself bleed, and she had a gun she stole from one of the guards. She pretended to shoot it, and then she injected me, and I don’t know what happened until she brought me back.”

            August stared at me. “Your heart stopped?”

            I frowned. “Yes.”

            “So, technically, you were dead.”

            “I—yeah, I guess so. For a bit.”

            His hand touched my chest, right over my heart. My breath caught in my throat. “Where did you cut yourself, Ellie?”

            “Near my heart. So it would look real.”

            “You probably did more,” he whispered, dragging a finger down, all the way to my stomach. “To make it real. Is this where you cut?”

            I nodded.

            “Can I see?”

            My brain said, “No,” but my hands rebelled and lifted my shirt, showing him the line, in practically the exact place he estimated. The feel of his skin against mine, when he traced the faded scar, caused me to feel things that were so purely good I nearly ran from the room to keep my promise to myself. My promise to him.

            My promise to stop hurting everybody.

            But I just shoved down my shirt and looked away.

            “I went half out of my mind those first couple of months,” August spoke, drawing my attention. “I blamed myself for everything, of course. Mostly I was just so angry, you know? So angry. With you.”

            I turned to him, frowning. “With me?”

            “Yes.”

            I blinked. A smile ghosted his lips, barely there, but enough. “Come here.”

            My brain rejected the movement but my body acted anyway, sitting beside him, inches apart.

            “You left me, Ellie,” he murmured, using his fist beneath my chin to lift my eyes. “You left me here. Alone.”

            I shook my head. “No—no. You had Jessica. And Blake. And there are so many other people. You weren’t alone.”

            “That’s not what I mean,” he continued, knuckle running across my cheek.

            Frustration set in. “I’m confused.”

            His eyes held mine. I wouldn’t dare look away. “You’re the one I cared about,” he said slowly, making sure I heard every word. “And when you died, a part of me died with you. So I was angry.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            August breathed deeply, chest puffing out and deflating. “I should be raging mad with you right now. Unbelievably furious.” He shook his head, continuing in a quieter voice. “To be honest, I kind of want to be. And I’m trying. But I—I’m just so damn glad you’re not dead, El.”

            The tears soaked my cheeks. I didn’t even have a chance at stopping them from running. “You shouldn’t be.”

            It was his turn to be confused. “What?”

            “You shouldn’t be even remotely glad to see me.”

            “Ellie—”

            I moved away from him, missing his touch but ignoring the ache. “I fooled you,” I said. “I fooled all of you, and I wasn’t going to come back. Augie . . . I wasn’t going to come back.”

            The stricken expression on his face nearly killed me. He shifted on the bed, trying to get up and walk to me, but he could barely move. There was still so much recovering to do.

            “I don’t belong with anybody. I don’t belong here, August. All I do is cause pain and grief and I have accepted that. Those six months taught me things you wouldn’t believe. I don’t care what you say—what anybody says. Enough with the lies. I’m a monster and that’s just the way it is.”

            He shook his head. “Ellie, please. Sit down.”

            “No. We—we can’t, August. Okay? We just can’t.”

            “Can’t what, El?”

            “You know.”

            His sharp eyes cut into me, understanding everything muddled in my soul. “Things have changed, Ellie. That’s inevitable. Of course it happens eventually. But not everything has to.”

            “No.”

            “All this time and you’re still afraid to admit you’re human. That you’re just like the rest of us. El, how many times do I have to say it to you? You’re not a monster.”

            “No.”

            “You’re not a killer.”

            “Stop, August.”

            “And you belong with—”

            I clamped my hands over my ears, blocking out the rest, sure I probably looked mildly insane. But whatever. Whatever. Didn’t I warrant the right to crack up now and again?

            Pain shot through my back. I’d been ignoring it to treat August, and was paying the consequences now, obviously.

            Without explaining, I rushed into the hall and found the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. Ripping my shirt from my body, I angled myself and gasped at the sickening bruise covering nearly my entire back. Courtesy of that Prophet’s boot. Apparently his favorite tactic had been to repeatedly ram his foot into my back when he wasn’t punching my face.

            I hadn’t expected August to follow, though I guessed I should have. He was that kind of person. The door opened and I pressed my shirt to my front, trying to conceal my injuries, but he wouldn’t have it.

            “Christ, Ellie,” he gasped, leaning heavily against the door jam. “You’re hurt, too. Why didn’t you say anything?”

            “Go, August. I can handle this myself. Have for the last six months.”

            “But it’s not just you and your whack mother anymore. I’m here. I’m here.”

            He’s here so you can hurt him again. So you can screw everything up. So you can fail your friends.

            “Stop,” I begged, when he wrenched my shirt away, eyes widening at the sight of my back.

            “Jesus,” he muttered. “Ellie, you should get in the tub. It’ll take care of the stiffness.”

            I glanced at the porcelain tub out of the corner of my eye, a regular claw foot with golden feet and everything. “I’m okay.”

            “Dammit, Ellie, if I have to pick you up and throw you in there and pop my stitches, I will.”

            And I smiled, automatically, because for just a moment, we were the old August and Ellie again. Infuriating each other and bugging each other and needing each other, regardless. For just a moment, he hadn’t left, and I hadn’t faked my death, and we had never been separated.

            For a moment.

            “Get in the tub,” August ordered, softly, finality laced in his tone.

            “Okay,” I conceded. Turned on the water. Did nothing.

            “What are you waiting for?”

            Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Can you please turn around?”

            A smirk twisted his lips. “Ellie, I’ve seen you naked before.”

            “August.”

            He held his hands up, turning around, majority of his weight supported by the wall. “Fine. There. Turned around.”

            I waited until the tub was filled to the top before stepping in. My back twanged with every minor movement. How had I not realized the severity of the damage before?

            “I’m in,” I told him, the water rising just below my neck, covering everything necessary. I thought August might leave now that I was safely in the tub, but instead he limped over and perched on the edge, straightening his gimpy leg.

            I gulped.

            “Nothing will happen,” I said. “You should go back to bed. You’re still healing.”

            August didn’t say anything, grabbing a cloth and some soap and dipping both in the water. He lathered the cloth and wrung it out, and ran it along my shoulder. My eyelids fluttered shut instinctively.

            “August,” I insisted. “Please.”

            But he refused to leave, moving my hair away to wash the rest of my back. My tattoo was fully visible, but he didn’t mention it. “We should get something straight right now.”

            That you should leave? “What?”

            His knuckle brushed my side and my spine arched. “I’m not interested in running in circles,” he said. “I’m not interested in doing the same damn thing over again with you.”

            Looking at him was not an option. I stared down at the soapy water.

            “You want to know why I’m not angry? Why I’m not so completely pissed at you right now?”

            Honestly, I did. My head bobbed up and down.

            He dipped the cloth in the water again and wrung it out, took one of my arms, and resumed his steady caressing. Nothing was said for a few moments as he finished and moved the washcloth to my collarbone.

            And didn’t move.

            “Do you know what the word symbiotic means?”

            His voice startled me a little. “No.”

          “It means to live in symbiosis; to have an interdependent relationship. To absolutely, irrevocably need each other.” Using the cloth, he turned my face to his. “Hating you would be hating myself. Hurting you would be like hurting myself. If you’re a monster than I’m a monster, El, and that’s just the way it is.”

            More tears pricked my eyes.

            That’s just the way it is.

            I sniffed, pushing his hand away. “I would like to see Blake and Jessica.”

            Defeat slumped his shoulders and thickened the air. “Ellie, don’t do this. Come on. You’re alive. Let’s just be together.”

            I squeezed my eyes shut. “Since you appear to be fine, I would like to see Blake and Jessica.”

            The defeat turned to anger. He stood and threw down the cloth, storming from the room, disregarding his injuries. I flinched. Sank into the water.

            And then I sobbed.