If anyone asked me whether I had been counting down the days until the end of the current decade, I would fervently deny it. But between you and I, I have.

It is because of this that I know that in exactly nine days' time, the floodgates will be thrown open- quite literally, that is. The ginormous stone walls of the Central Highway will be rolled aside for one day only, and for twenty-four hours hundreds of poor souls will spill through over the gaping threshold. Many will be trampled as they struggle to fill their lungs with air, pleading pitifully with each other for passage. But once people like us have a taste at anything more than scraps and insatiable heat, they are deaf to all other reason.

The decadal invitation from the Republic will be remembered by bodies littering the Highway, blood pooling around broken bones, weeping mothers, lost possessions, shattered hopes, and the distant cackling of politicians.

It is a sick game.

But it is irresistable.

***

Most of us in the Outer City don't live long past thirty; the rations we receive on a random basis are cripplingly meager, and there simply isn't enough to go around. At seventeen, I'm one of the eldest members of this community.

Even so, when I allow my thoughts to stray far enough, the raging scorch of the sun becomes noticeable again. As a long-term resident of this tangible nightmare, I am normally able to ignore it. But now, as I stare in horror at the pulsing blisters infesting my uncovered arms, my eyes burn with dehydrated tears. My throat stings, a sob gurgling in my throat. It has been six days since my argument with Ruth, and the events of that evening were but a temporary distraction from my debilitating condition. Yet, I cannot pull my thoughts away from the nearing opportunity for escape.

I gingerly turn my attention back to the janky well on which I lean. This is one of my village's only water sources, and it has been out of use for years. Still, on a good day, it provides a sickly portion of drinkable fluid. The metal bucket of the well sags with age, and orange flakes of rust dust its interior. Wincing, I lift my arm to the splintering wooden lever and begin lowering the container: if I am lucky, there will be enough water to temporarily soothe my injuries.

I watch as the sad little bucket disappears behind the well's cobblestone lip and into the selfish blackness below. Delirious, I consider the power this well holds; standing here, I am so painfully dependent on its fruitfulness, and yet ultimately, this cylindrical structure of old stones determines whether I thirst to death.

When the fraying rope reaches its maximum extension, I reverse my swiveling motions and await the reappearance of the bucket. I do not recall the fortunate splash of water making contact with the vessel, nor do I remember hearing the depressing clank of emptiness, either. The sun beats down on the back of my neck, exposed by the space left behind by my sloppy ponytail. The radiation stings, and I can only hope I do not contract any more blisters.

My eyes are slammed shut against the searing heat of the atmosphere when an innocent click alerts me that the bucket has surfaced. I nearly throw myself over the edge of the well to assess my harvest.

As suspected, the bucket is empty.

In a fit of anger I give it a substantial shove of my palms, sending it soaring in the opposite direction before hurtling back at me. I duck, sending my face scraping against the abrasive edges of the stones which make up this well.

A throaty wail escapes my mouth as I crumple against the structure, cradling my head in my arms. The pain is quickly subsiding -- or, I realize, numbing from the gradual death of nerve cells in my skin -- but my frustration is not eased by the blood pouring from a place above my eye.

There is no stopping the agony from cascading out of me this time. Low, wretched sobs burble from my throat as I cradle myself back and forth on this rough asphalt. I have not cried in years, and it seems that my emotional defiance has finally disintegrated under the harsh glares of starvation and utter torture.

The thick blood pooling on my brow now coats my hands in sticky gloves. Its deep scarlet hue easily attracts the heat of the sun above as it begins to sear my sensitive skin. I feel the onset of blisters already, and I am suddenly glad, so glad, nobody is here to watch me die in such a humiliating way.

"Salem? Salem!" Archer's frantic voice forces my eyes open. He is beside me in an instant, pulling his weathered brown tee shirt over his head. He presses it against the gash on my forehead, instructing me to hold it in place. Meanwhile, his green eyes flick to the well behind me.

My vision is beginning to blur. The injury isn't critical, but I feel a blazing fever slicing across my body.

Something is wrong.

Lukewarm water is trickling down my face, my neck, but it does not relieve my symptoms.

Something is wrong, Archer.

"I'm here, Salem. You're going to be okay," he replies with a comforting tone. He can read my thoughts? I am certain he knows when a wave of nausea ripples through me, then. Or perhaps I have vomited. There is no telling.

A black curtain spreads across my vision and the pain is gone.

***

When I awake, I am in precisely the same position as before.

I blink forcefully, allowing myself to adjust to the change in scenery. It is much later in the day now, I realize-- I must have been unconscious for several hours. My fever has cooled to a degree, although there remains a throbbing pain in both of my blistered arms and the unmistakable scent of vomit is thick in the air.

Lifting my head from its resting place against the side of the well is a struggle at first, and I am quickly overcome by a flash of vertigo. I seethe quietly and take a deep breath. Remembering my mortifying pre-fainting circumstances, I am met with a jolt of shame. No.

A swift glance at the ground beneath me tells me all I need to know: the gravel is shifted in places, as if dug through. Apparently Archer cleaned up after me.

My face is burning, but not from the sun this time.

"Salem?" Archer rasps from behind me. I swing around hastily only to be pummeled by more vertigo and a river of warm bile shooting up my throat. I sway, and a sturdy arm is extended to steady me. "Salem, can you hear me?"

"Yes," I croak. Glad to see one part of me still works. I let several strands of my dark hair fall in front of my eyes. It's nice to be shielded in times like this. But Archer brushes them away, tucking them behind my ears before reaching for his shirt, which is now bloodied. My bad, I think, channeling his humor.

My vision is still hazy, and there are black spots dancing at the corners of my retinas, so it is only now that I realize Archer remains shirtless. I squint, absorbing the fine details of his figure. This isn't the first time I have seen him like this, but considering the circumstances, I cannot help but be amazed.

He is mostly lean, but sturdily built. Like Lila, Archer is freckled, but most of his blemishes appear across his chest and upper arms. Tiny flecks of red pepper his skin like cinnamon, and they gradually densify closer to his shoulders. Archer's muscles ripple as he bends into the bucket of water and dampens my makeshift cloth. He brings it to my face again.

I reach a tentative arm to my forehead and bristle when I feel the fabric wrapped around my skull. A bandage?

Archer smiles, his lips tugging goofily at the corners as he settles in front of me. "Hey."

I can't help but smile back. "Sorry," I find myself saying, even though it brings be great shame to do so. I hate apologizing; out here, we aren't fortunate enough to hold grudges. There is not enough food to supply enough energy for the luxury of feeling disdain for another person. We're just trying to survive, and doing so is rather difficult without the additional matter of niceties.

He frowns, shaking his head. "No, no. Don't be sorry." A pause. "How do you feel, sunshine?"

"Peachy," I snap, wrinkling my nose. My fingertips fly to the bandage covering my brow again, and a soft, pillowy sensation sends my eyes snapping to his. "Archer, where did you get real bandages?" It has been years since our last supply run, and there's absolutely no way anything this useful could have been left over.

He winks. "I have my ways."

A groan escapes my throat. I begin to shake my head in bewilderment. "Wait. No, please don't tell me you traded your rations-"

"I didn't." He cuts me off with a surety I don't expect from him. "I promise." Apparently my eyes are still wild with panic, because Archer slides off of his heels and into the empty space besides me. His head falls back in exhaustion, letting loose his beautiful waves of red hair. His jaw is tense, as if he's holding something back.

"Archer..." I begin, careful not to ruin the tender moment. It's dangerous to be seen displaying this kind of attitude towards another -- the travesties of late make that much clear -- but I can sense something is bothering him. "Is there something wrong?"

His eyes flutter closed, and he shakes his head silently. I feel a nudge at my thigh. Archer's hand slides into mine, our fingers intertwining harmoniously. Self-consciousness seizes my breath for a moment as I remember my hands are caked in my own blood, but the natural caramel of my hands notifies me that Archer paid great attention when managing the aftermath of my tantrum.

All for nothing, I chastise myself. There was water in the bucket after all. Laughable.

The sunlight glinting across Archer's features casts a distinct golden halo across his head. He shakes it now, turning to look me directly in the eyes. "No, nothing. Just thinking."

I frown. He is acting rather peculiar. "About what?" He grimaces.

I shift in place, trying to get a better view of him. A shadow is thrown our way, courtesy of an old church building. The tip of the cross is splayed across Archer's grimacing face. "Hello? Anyone in there?" I'm kidding around, but when Archer still doesn't respond I begin to get worried. "Hey, come on. What's the matter?"

He seems offended. I want to shrivel up and die in this moment. "I'm sorry, Salem. Must I share every minute detail about my life with you?" His hand slithers from mine, eyes sharp with distrust. "Everything isn't about you, you know. You aren't the only one who misses their parents, and unlike you, some of us don't feel the need to make it other people's business."

Memories of years of weeping into Archer's shoulder, rattling off possibilities, and shouting profanities burst into my mind, shattering and striking and ripping apart the last of my dignity. Where was abrasive, independent, unapproachable Salem now? But all I can say is: "W-what?"

Regret flashes behind Archer's eyes, but he doesn't let it taint his words. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. I love you, Salem, like- a lot. But I can't do this. One minute you're crying about your crappy childhood, then we're making out, then you pretend like it never happened and we're just friends again! Then you start talking about running away to the capital-"

"Archer, no-"

"-and then I find you unconscious on the side of a well. Can you see how that might be frustrating for me?" His tone is sharper than the jagged stones behind us, but I can sense his struggle to maintain a degree of softness. "I don't know what you want me to say. There are things you don't know about me, alright? Things I'd rather not share. And I'm sorry things turned out this way but I've been meaning to tell you for a while now. I feel like I hardly know you."

And someone has just pummeled the steel hilt of a gigantic dagger into my gut. The blade has pierced my heart and bile is already making its trip back up my throat but I swallow it before I make things worse. "Seriously?" I rasp, sweat beading on my temple. "Archer, I mean where did this come from?"

He averts his eyes, suddenly hyper-focused on some intriguing point in the distance. I wait for him to reply, but in this excruciating moment of silence I hear it again.

The sirens.

The boy next to me heaves a sigh, dragging a hand exasperatedly through his brilliant locks. He cups his face in this hand and doesn't say a word for several more minutes, until finally-

"Look, I know this is sudden, and maybe that's on me, but the bottom line is I don't think this"—he gestures around—"is going to work." The pain slashing through his voice is evident, but my mind is far too occupied with thoughts of Are you breaking up with me? Were we ever together in the first place? What did I do? Why now? What happened? Does this have to do with the vomit?

And then.

Archer has been shot.

Someone is dragging me away from him.

I am screaming.

I can't feel my throat.

Help me.