Chapter 39: they were headed for the border, walking and then running

What's been happening here since the very beginning is that she's been fucking with time.

She made him start marking it in the first place, separating out minutes and hours and days from the streaky blur his life had been before. She made him start counting the whole thing in weeks. Last night the rain slammed itself down and the moon slammed itself up with no interval between, and he's pretty sure that was her fault too. Now he watches her go into the water, watches her bobbing feet away from the kid and soaked and already muddy and reaching for him, and Daryl feels the seconds stretch out into hours as he claws his way to the edge of the young river.

She's already too far away for him to grab her.

"Beth!"

But she doesn't turn; how could she? The current is spinning her, dragging her further from the lip of the broken concrete, and anyway she's intent on the reason she's there in the first place, her fingertips grazing the kid's shirt before he tumbles away again, letting out a single choked scream before the water muffles him.

Daryl tenses. Coils. Strong arms seize his shoulders from behind, yank him back.

"Man, don't, it's fuckin' suicide!"

Daryl wrenches at the man's grip - or is it two men? - and snarls, every muscle protesting loudly. "The fuck you call that, then?"

"Don't." But the repetition clangs off his eardrums. It's inconsequential. All that matters is Beth, her blond head darkening with muddy water, her arms flailing as she tries to keep herself upright and floating. People are crying out, rushing the jagged edge, reaching groping hands, useless.

He thinks numbly about how he never got to talk to her. About how he never got to say he was sorry.

And she has the kid.

More cries running through the crowd, chaos of disconnected words. Grab, hurry, God, don't, help, die. He finally gets himself free and hurtles down toward her, stumbling over a thick chunk of pavement, almost falling, feeling it slamming into his shin, ignoring the pain. She's actually almost succeeding, the kid clinging to her neck as she forces her way sideways through the current, stretching her hand toward the hands stretching for her, angling herself so the kid is closer.

Daryl has no idea how he got there but he's there, his body churning through the space between the people on either side as he leans forward, someone else taking fierce hold of him from behind. His hands close hard on the kid's arm and jerk, and then he's hauling, his muscles screaming pain as he yanks the kid in and onto the bank. Someone is there, takes the writhing boy from him, and he barely notices as he surges forward again, and his fingertips brush hers as she thrusts her whole body toward him, and she locks her wide blue eyes onto his.

She's not afraid. She's all fire.

"Beth, c'mon!"

He has her hand. He has it. His fingers slip, slip, and then she threads her fingers through his and clutches him and he has her, dragging her to him, he has her.

And a thick branch crashes toward her, thuds against her cheek and her fingers jerk loose from his and the flood carries her away.

He stares at her, at it, at the whole thing, frozen. Watching as she's sucked down and is gone.

Somewhere someone is shouting. Maybe a lot of someones. Sirens, flashing lights throwing sharp shadows onto the concrete. He stares at the place where she was, his hand hanging useless above the water, dripping like fresh rain. Searching. No, that can't happen. It can't. It doesn't make any sense.

He had her.

Someone pulls him backward and he goes, not fighting anymore. He might be yelling her name. His throat hurts, raw. He might not be doing anything.

No, see, he had her. That's the thing. He had her, that's what happened. She can't be gone, because he had her.

"Jesus Chri- look!"

Everyone swings their attention away, further down the bank. For a moment he doesn't follow with his own, because what the fuck could they be looking at that matters at all? What does matter at this point?

But he looks, and there it is: blond head gone dark with muddy water.

Gone dark with blood.

She's not being carried any further. It's the Durango, she's clinging to the Durango, her fingers curled around the door handle, the rest of her body trailing out in front of her and her arms straining. He catches a glimpse of her face, bloody as well, and then he's tearing open the world, ripping a hole in it and leaping through, no air in his burning lungs. He doesn't need any, not for this. If he had any left, she could have it all.

Beth. Girl, no. Beth.

The SUV had been inching forward and it must have inched faster in the last few minutes, because it's much closer to the broken pavement than it was. Everyone seems to be reaching for her but he throws them all bodily aside, not caring, not even really aware of them except on the most basic level. He drops, grabs hold of the edge, teeters, and for a split second he's sure he's going to fall in too, and really? That would be fine at this point. That would be just fine.

Reaches out and it's not enough and it's not going to be enough, he's going to lose her again.

He has her. He has her by the wrist, her bracelets catching on the side of his palm, and once again he tears the air apart to bring her in.

And she's against him. Cold. Boneless. He tumbles backward, holding her tight, holding her so tight that he feels those bones grind.

More shouting. Sirens. Someone hollering for an ambulance. He doesn't give a fuck. He's shoving himself up as she falls from his arms and he's bending over her, trying to straighten her out, hand on her chest, desperately feeling for a heartbeat. He can't tell. He can't feel anything. She doesn't look like she's breathing. He can't tell that either. He knows how to do this, or he did, but it's all gone and all he has is the most basic, fractured memory to go on, fumbling for it, sure he's getting it wrong and doing things in the incorrect order, sure she's going to die right here if she isn't already dead and there's nothing he can fucking do because he's a useless fucking asshole and he ruins everything.

He pinches her nostrils shut, seals his mouth over hers and exhales hard. Again. Makes a weird, stupid, nonsensical connection with something mostly unrelated. Doesn't give a fuck who sees this. It doesn't matter now. She can have all his air. Every last breath, she can have.

With more strength than he thought he had he pushes up, stares down at her, at her chest.

Nothing.

Then she spasms, coughs, rolls to the side and vomits dark water. Again everything freezes, locks into place, and it's like when she kissed him, like so many times when she's spun a space around them apart from everything else. Something for them alone.

A place where he can curl an arm under her and lift her, gather her into him, press his cheek to the top of her head and rock her back and forth and shake with all the terror as it bleeds out of him.

Oh my girl.

Tension is creeping back into her limbs, a little, and she shifts in his arms, trembling, dragging in huge, rasping breaths. He pulls back just a bit, enough to see her face - the ugly gash slicing across her cheek, the blood streaking down it and her jaw and neck, more all the time, and he can taste it on his lips. He slides a hand into the wet tangle of her hair, cups the back of her head, and when he withdraws it, it comes away bloody too.

And she's gazing up at him, blinking, her eyes unfocused. She doesn't look like she's entirely there. Her trembling is increasing in intensity, almost shuddering now, and her lips move. No sound. He leans in, feels them moving against his ear.

Was coming... coming to see you.

He's such an idiot. He's such a fucking idiot.

Her eyes flutter and roll up and fall closed again, and her head lolls back. More cries for an ambulance, more sirens. Something about it not being able to get through, and he remembers the solid wall of cars, and he's scooping her up, stumbling to his feet, turning and trying to run. He can't and he staggers forward because she's heavier than she looks; her arms and legs are dangling limp like a stringless marionette, she's dead weight, and he thinks this isn't a dream, this is a nightmare, and please God, whatever god there is, please let him wake up in the ruins and the mud and the rain and please let this not have happened. He'll give anything. He'll pay anything that fucking god wants.

He sees stunned faces, wide eyes. None of them are real. Just her and all that blood.

Flashing lights. People in blue and bright yellow rushing toward him, pushing something on wheels. They're reaching out, trying to take her from him, but he holds on, struggles, and they push at him and pry at his arms and they're saying Sir, sir- you have to let go, all right? You have to let us take her. And somehow he gets that and he loosens, releases her, but it's like his breastbone cracking and he almost doubles over as they put her on the stretcher and strap her down, turn and start rolling her away.

He's still trying to break through them. So ready to tear open that space just like he did before. One of them is bracing their hands on his shoulders and he's saying I have to go with her, let me go with her and they tell him he can't, can't ride along, but they're taking her - where? They're taking her to the name of a hospital he doesn't quite get, doesn't quite process, and he tries to see where she is and the lights and suddenly the sun blinds him.

And then he's just standing there and watching those lights recede, and once again she's being carried away.

But he had her. He did. He just had her, just now.

It's very confusing. He's very confused.

People behind him, saying things. Someone touches his arm and he jerks away, already walking and then running toward the truck. They told him. They told him where they were taking her. If he can just remember.

He had her.

He'll find her. He'll find her or nothing will matter anymore.