Chapter Song: You Saved Me by The Elms

DAISY

I can't remember the last time I'd smelt a hamburger.

At first, I wasn't even all that sure I had awoken, believing myself to still be asleep, and having that all too familiar dream of ordering a beloved In'n'Out again. Imagination, my imagination, has been playing some pretty cruel tricks on me as of late. A couple of weeks ago I faintly recall hearing my mother's voice calling out to me, informing me dinner was ready. Of course, I was wrong on both counts - Audrey wasn't really my mom, and she certainly wasn't in the woods rustling me up some delectable feast like in the good old days.

So why should I have trusted my nose when I smelt the unmistakable aroma of beef, cheese, and that all important bun?

The thing is, my stomach was growling profusely, and hunger seemed to overcome all sense of logic. My hand itched to the side of me where I went to unzip the sleeping bag, when I noticed that I wasn't in a sleeping bag at all. Instead, I was outstretched on the plumpest of mattresses I'd ever felt, so much so that I might as well have been laying on clouds. This was strange, because I'd fallen asleep last night exactly how I had for the past three months and nine days; folded ever so uncomfortably in my slightly-too-big sleeping bag, on the gallingly hard ground, or maybe perched precariously and somewhat timorously up on a thick branch. I was neither stiff or elevated, so where on earth had I fallen asleep?

Heart hammering away in my chest, I wasn't sure if I wanted to open my eyes. The last thing I can recollect is a searing pain in my thigh, and the faint smell of petrol. Though the petrol scent has long since faded, I try and move my leg, and a burning sensation rips through my nervous system.

Shaking, I dare to reach my hand down and feel for the damage. What I feel causes a gasp to escape my lips. There was nothing there. My jeans I had lived in since the day we left our family home, had disappeared, and I was left in just an unfamiliar nightgown I believe. A bandage had been wrapped around my wound. My underwear was nowhere in sight.

I still haven't open my eyes, and I'm terrified to even try. However, I'm literally in the dark about my whereabouts, and I can't help myself until I at least gather an idea of where I am. Slowly but surely, my eyes flicker open.

I don't know how to feel about being in a teenage boy's room. I hadn't been in one since Miles and I split, and he hadn't been a teenager for some time, so it didn't really count. It was a lot tidier than I had expected, and there wasn't a dirty poster in sight. In fact, the only posters he did have up where old spy films from the 60's. A stack of books filled the corner, ranging from survival guides to autobiographies of soldiers and adventurers. Also, a mountainous pile of college pamphlets lay discarded in the bin, and just a quick glance at the names, I saw that this guy was interested in perhaps every college in the whole of the United States. Keeping his options open maybe? A computer screen lay collecting dust on a desk, next to an XBOX which seemed equally as grimy - due to the power going out over six months ago, he hasn't had means to turning them on.

I'm certain it's a he because the colour of the room is a rather fetching shade of blue, that causes images of blueberry jam and the deep end of a swimming pool to flutter throughout my mind.

Another cautious glance across the room allows me to spot my backpack, sat on the chair, along with my clothes folded neatly. The zipper looks untouched, but you can't be too sure. Now, unless my rifle had conveniently shrunk to fit into my bag, then it wasn't here, and that itself was a worrying thought. Either I'd left it behind where I'd been shot, meaning I had no protection, or the owner of this nightgown - okay, so maybe not the owner per say - and the bed, and the blue room, and taken it, meaning he didn't want me to have protection.

However, I still had my pistol, or at least hoped I still had my pistol.

There was only one way to check, and that was to search my backpack for it. I hoisted myself up, the effects of remaining still for however long being that of aches and pains coursing through my joints. Then, as I try and stand up off of the bed, I fall flat onto my face, hitting the ground hard, knocking the chair over as I do so. I cry out, and immediately clap a hand to my mouth. I hear the creaks of the stairs, and I know he heard me. Scuffling to my feet as best as I can, I launch myself into the bed, throwing the covers over me, tears pricking at my screwed shut eyes as I feel my wound rip open.

I know he's opened the door when that burger aroma grows stronger. I try and steady my breathing, and grit my teeth to bare the pain.

"I know you're awake, Daisy," he says to me. His voice cut through me like a knife, the soft, good old American accent I'd craved to hear wrapping around my name - a name he couldn't possibly know.

Snapping my head around, furrowing my eyebrows, I stare right at the face of my captor - or helper, depends how this next conversation goes.

"How the fuck do you know my name?" I demand, harshly.

He tucks his hands into his pocket. "Driver's license. It was in your . . . bag . . . what happened here?" He spots the mess I've made, the aforementioned bag lying on the floor, and looks back over at me. "What did you do?"

He rushes over to me so fast, I'm afraid what he's going to do to me. I swing my hand out and hit him square in the chest, in an effort to get him to leave me be, but he's strong, and pulls the sheets off of me before I can hold them taut. His eyes widen when he sees my leg, blood seeping out of my wound and spilling onto the sheets under me.

"Jesus, Daisy!" He doesn't hesitate to put his hands under my knees and around my waist, scooping me out of the bed. His touch is surprisingly soft, and he's warm, and just so immensely strong. I feel the muscles in his chest straining as he carries me, and I try not to dwell on the thought of what they must look like. I scream out in pain, the sudden movement doing me more bad than good. This boy - or man, he has one of those faces that place him in the age range of seventeen to thirty - leads me down the landing, and into a bathroom that smelt like lavender; the same scent that lingers on my skin and hair. Whilst he sets me down on the side of the bathtub, I glance down at my hands, and my pristine nails shock me.

I start to piece everything together; the anomalous nightgown, the new lavender scent lingering on my skin, the dressed leg.

"You cleaned me."

He nods whilst unwrapping the bandaging, which has now clung to my flesh. I grit my teeth and wince as he gently tugs it off.

"You undressed me."

He nods again as he dabs pure alcohol on the great big gaping hole in my thigh, the size of a cork. I scream and dig my nails into the side of the bathtub.

"You saw me naked."

This catches him off guard, and drops the needle and thread in surprise, looking up at me. I'm a little taken aback at the fact he can look me in the eyes and with a straight face, after I've said the words aloud. They're hazelnut coloured orbs, with these tiny flecks of amber. I feel as though I'm looking into the eyes of a deer that I've stumbled across in the woods, and it's considering whether to scarper or not.

The boy (or man, really, I can't tell) nods, slowly this time, as he picks up the needle and thread. "I'm sorry about that, there really wasn't an alternative. You were going into shock. I had to keep you warm, and clean the wound at the same time."

I suppose that makes sense. "You could maybe have left my panties on though," I point out, half joking, half completely serious.

The boy smiles, whether out of embarrassment, or he finds me amusing, I'm not sure. I don't get to ask him though, as he braces me for the needle piercing my skin. He stitches my wound up, quite precisely, and methodically. Then, he helps me to my feet, which are slightly numb. I haven't used them in . . . how long now?

"How long have I been here?" I ask him, trying to ignore the fact his arm is snaked around my waist.

"It'll be a week tomorrow."

"Fuck," I hiss. "Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck."

The boy slash man stops in his tracks, halting me too, on the landing. He looks me up and down, concern evident in his features.

"What is it?" he queries.

"My sister," I whisper. "How far away is Wright Patterson?"

"The air base?" I nod. "Too far. Two hundred miles, at a push. Why?"

My jaw drops. Three months of walking and I'm further away from the base than I was when I began. The boy slash man starts to lead me towards his room again, but I shake my head, and tell him I'm sick of laying down.

"You need rest," he assures me.

"I need one of those burgers I can smell," I reply, in an equally serious tone.

"You've been shot," he adds, as though the throbbing in my thigh wasn't enough evidence.

"You don't say," I mutter.

I feel him chuckle, as we continue the descent down the stairs that seems never-ending. Fortunately however, after an eternity of climbing, we reach the bottom, the aroma growing ever-present in my nose, taunting me. He directs me to the kitchen, where he sits me at the table, taking all the cushions from all the other chairs, and positioning them around and under me.

I watch as he takes the burger off of the grill, the satisfactory sizzling sound music to my ears, and prop it between two mouthwatering buns. I insist that he put extra cheese on the beef, which he obliges to do. I thank him, and tuck in graciously, savouring each and every bite. He sits across from me, without a plate, and smiles. It's a nice smile, suits him.

Dabbing at my face with the napkin he slides across to me, the burger barely touching my sides, I look over at him.

"Where on earth did you get a burger?" I ask, completely baffled. He chuckles again.

"This is - was, a farm. We had cows, which is where the beef is from. She was our last. The cheese came from the cellar, and I made the bread." He talks about this miracle he just crafted as though it was an itch on his nose, or a tickle in the back of his throat. It took effort to make, but was hardly remarkable or note-worthy. I can't figure out if this modesty was true or not, and I'm inclined to think that it is. The fact this boy slash man just cooked me a burger, something I hadn't had in . . . just under six months, and he probably has burgers whenever he has the motivation to bake the bread, truly, truly astonishes me.

"I mean sorry about your cow, but she's fucking delicious," I say, noticing the faraway look in his eye as he tells me about the farm he no longer has. He smiles. "Am I going to have to dig out your drivers license too, or could you just tell me your name? Save the embarrassing photos."

Again he laughs. I like his laugh too. It sounds like he hasn't laughed in a while, and that makes me morose, because neither have I. Which, in a way, is strange. Before the Arrival, I used to make myself laugh all the time.

"I'm Grant Ward. You can call me Ward, if you like."

"Hi," I grin, greeting him properly. I reach a hand out, which he takes, chuckling again. It's a strong grip, the kind of grip that would impress even the strictest of father's. Mine, maybe not. I observe his hand curiously, and imagine it running a warm, wet cloth over every inch of my body. My completely naked body. I retract my hand quickly.

"Where the hell am I Ward?" I ask softly, cocking my head to the side, bringing my unscathed leg up to rest my chin on.

"Just on the outskirts of Sullivan."

Deeply agitated with myself, I groan out loud, closing my eyes. When I open them, Ward is looking at me strangely. "What is it?"

"I was in some refugee camp in Potawatomi Park, Cedar Lake, last time I saw a fucking sign post. I've been travelling for three fucking months to get to Wright-Patterson. If I'm in Sullivan now, then I've been walking in the wrong fucking direction this whole goddamn fucking shitting time." Out of anger or defeat, I'm not really sure, they're both kind of blending in to one another, I bang my fist against the oak table, that was probably hand carved and assembled by the same hands that washed me. Damn I really need to get that image out of my head.

Ward doesn't flinch at my outburst In fact, he simply grins, almost sheepishly.

"You know, for someone so pretty and small, you curse like a pirate," he chuckles, shaking his head, possibly out of disbelief.

"Please don't patronise me," I tell him, not sure if my heart was in my throat out of fury, or because of what he called me. Pretty.

"Trust me, it was all in good faith," he assured me, as he took my plate away from me and tipped the crumbs into the dustbin. I was surprised I'd left anything, after the meagre portions of rabbit and squirrel I've been living off of.

"Cedar Lake, huh?" he says, as he sits back down at the table. I nod. "If my dad knew I was housing a girl from Illinois in my house, well . . . "

I understand the reference immediately. "Your dad was a big basketball fan then?" I say, then teasing look down at my nails and pretend to pick at them, though Ward had made sure that they were gleaming. "Personally I thought the Hoosiers were always good practice for the Fighting Illini, you know, for when they got to play the real teams."

"That's cute, you're cute," he mocks - or is he mocking me? "You know the Hoosiers could wipe the floor with your boys from Illinois."

I lean over and punch him, playfully, in the arm. He cries out, though I think it's just for comedic effort, as I know that my weak ass punch could barely bruise those tree trunks he calls arms. Seriously, this boy slash man has biceps to rival cage fighters.

"How old are you, Ward?" I ask, curious.

"Turned nineteen nine days ago."

It seems odd, to hear about something as mundane as birthdays, after every complete un-mundane that's happened lately.

"Well, happy birthday for nine days ago," I tell him, feeling it the right thing to do. He seems to appreciate the gesture, late though it is, and grins widely at me again. Truly, it really suits him. "You don't look like a farm boy, you know. More like some Abercrombie model."

He chuckles, and glances down at his lap, diffidently. "I've never been all that good at first impressions," he murmurs, flippantly. "My family are from Evansville, where dad owned this huge business. Security solutions, I think. Anyway, when he hit fifty, mom told him that working as hard as he did, was going to drive him into an early grave. So we sold up and moved here, when I was seven. Supposed to be some kind of family bonding, or some other bullshit excuse he fed mom to convince her to move here. We didn't know he had a girlfriend living a few miles down the road."

My mouth hung open in surprise, at both the story and the fact Ward told me. He doesn't seem like the open type. Looking up at me, he sighs, and started to apologise.

"Sorry, you probably didn't need to here that," he began. "We barely know each other."

"Well, you have seen me naked," I joke, trying to make light of the situation. It works, and Ward smiles, though his cheeks do tinge a little pink.

Ward takes me into the living room, where he sets me down on the sofa, laying a soft, woollen blanket over me, noticing my shivering body. He sits down across from me, and folds his arms into his lap. We were both aware that my toes were brushing his thigh.

"Who's nightie is this?" I ask him, tugging at the thin material. It was nice, the colour of lavender. Not my first choice of sleepwear, but nice all the same.

"It was my mom's," he tells me, and by the tone of his voice, I know she didn't make it.

"Your dad?"

He shakes his head. "I had two brothers, one younger, one older, and a little sister. None of them made it. My little sister was the last one to go. How about you? Where's your family?"

"Mom died when she got infected. My dad took me and my little sister to the camp near Cedar Lake. One day a couple of buses turn up, driven by the military. They say that they can only rescue the kids first, then they'll come back for the adults. Me and Lola get on, when she tells me she's dropped her teddy. I hop off and go search for it. By the time I've found it, the buses are driving off. I go to find my dad, only to see the supposed military turning on all the civilians, gunning them down without remorse. Dad got shot in the hand, and I found his body."

"That's why you want to get to Wright Patterson?"

"It's why I have to get to Wright Patterson."