Book Two

Chapter Eleven
This wasnt a game anymore. I was shot. Really, truly, shot. It all seemed sort of surreal
to me up until this point. Sure, I was definitely traveling back in time, the elixir was for real, but
I never really thought that I was in an actual danger. This is no joke, Nathaniel. There is no going
back from this. Salvadors words rang through my head. Faith did her best to patch up the
wound, but with every gingerly step I took, I could feel a thin warm stream of blood trickle down
my shin. I looked down and saw that the once white cotton bandage was now mostly pink, with a
deep, dark red circle in the middle where the bullet had entered my leg. Faith found me a stick of
wood, about four feet long, just strong enough for me to use as a crutch.
Here, take this walking stick. She said with a flash of innocence, trying to make the best of a
bad situation.
I used to play with these when I was younger, She continued.
My sister and I would pretend we were Lewis and Clark exploring the great unknown, She
paused and took a look at my leg.
Except neither of us had been shot.
I couldnt help but smile, even amidst all of the pain.
Yeah, I guess this is a little different. Not much though. I joked.
We moved slowly through the country, each step seeming more painful than the one
before. The air was hot and muggy, the moisture seemed to be sitting, waiting stagnantly for
someone to push it out of your way in order to move forward. The humidity was strangling me.
It reminded me of the many summer days I spent in New York City, one of those days where I
would take a step outside and immediately long for my return to my air conditioning. Air
conditioning, I thought. Wouldnt that be nice right about now. Just another thing I had taken for
granted. One of the many. I could feel the blue cotton uniform, which you could now argue was
more red than blue, sticking to my back, smothering my torso, making it difficult to breathe.
And to think that I volunteered for this, I said to Faith between deep breaths, trying to
make light of the situation.
What? You cant take a little exercise? Faith responded.
A man like you should be up for a march like this.
Faith, Im shot, remember?
Oh come on, think of the bright side, youre not dead!
Thats true, I wasnt dead. Yet.
Faith was good about trying to make light of a bad situation. She was positive. I loved
that about her. Thats what I needed in my life, some positivity.
You are right about that, Faith. I looked down, inspecting the bandage, making sure I
hadnt lost too much blood.
So, uh, do you know where were headed? I asked, just realizing that I had no idea
where in the hell we were.
Sure I do, its easy.
Again, positivity.
Right now well, you see that river? Between those trees? Faith stopped walking and
pointed to the right.
Yeah. I lied. I had no idea where any river was. Truth is, I just trusted Faith. I trusted
that she had my back and that she would take care of me. Hell, I had Faith.
As long as we dont lose sight of that and keep walking north, we should be okay. She
said.
We should find Washingtons armyeventually.
Ill take your word for it.
The walk became easier the more I got used to dealing with the pain. What started as a
sharp, shooting, disabling pain, had turned into a sort of numbness, as if my brain wanted me to
forget I had been shot. Trust me, I hadnt forgotten. Every hour or so we had to stop to change
the bandage and make sure the wound hadnt gotten infected or increased in size it hadnt. I
wasnt used to being the one needing looking out for. The baby. The cripple. Sure, being an only
child did allow my parents to baby me more than, say, Tommy Richnows parents, who had six
children four boys and two girls (God bless them) but I never allowed my parents to spoil
me. I resented that treatment. Plus, growing up in the city always seemed to provide more
freedom, more independence, than anything else.
I had developed this odd sort of limp. Faith joked and said that I looked like a duck when
I walked; all straight legged, waddling from one side to the other. In a way, I knew what she
meant. I remembered the day trips to Central Park that my Mom and I would take when I was
younger. She would pack us each a bagged lunch, usually an egg salad sandwich (my favorite),
whichever fruit we had in the house, and always made sure to include three strawberry fruit roll-
ups for dessert (two for me, one for her). We would spread a blanket down on the crisp, well-
maintained Central Park grass and sit and watch the ducks for hours. And when I would toss a
piece or two of my sandwich in their direction, we would laugh as they scurried towards us, their
bright green bodies bobbing back and forth from left to right.
I couldnt help but think of my Mom as Faith and I marched north. My Mom loved the
outdoors. She was the original outdoorswoman, my Dad and I would joke. She had spent thirteen
years writing for National Geographic Magazine, traveling the world reporting on a multitude of
issues. From human rights, to politics, to, hell, I even remember reading a story my Mom did
about the migration of Arctic polar bears in the springtime. This was, of course, before I was
born. As soon as her belly began to swell she decided that her career as a globe-trotting news
reporter had come to an end.
! You look like a duck, waddling back and forth like that. Quack! Quack! Faith giggled
and flung her arms up in the air while as made the last quack.
A duck, I said. Great, I remind you of a duck. How about, I dont know, a heroic
soldier, perhaps?
Noo silly, you dont remind me of a duck. Only the way you walk does!
I couldnt help but laugh. After all, she was right. I could tell that I looked funny when I
walked. At least I am still walking, I thought.
We had been walking for hours and I could see the sun was starting to set over the tree
line ahead of us. The temperature had cooled, and the heavy, sweat inflated cotton uniform,
which must have added anywhere between ten to twenty pounds of weight on my back, was now
effectively cooling me down, and actually, felt sort of refreshing. My feet were beginning to
blister I could feel soft spots forming on both of my heels, my left toe, and the left side of my
right foot. It was these leather boots. Why the fuck did armies ever fucking fight in these fucking
things, I thought. I knew I couldnt ever vocalize my frustration about the lack of technology, or
overall sense (or lack thereof), that seemed to exist in this century. If I had, Faith might have
actually thought I was crazy. Just as I could feel the skin behind my heals begin to rip open,
revealing the raw, pink, untouched skin below, Faith turned and sat down beside me.
Thisll do. She said, dropping her nurse supplies down beside her and taking a look
around to make sure everything was okay.
What are we going to do here?
Were going to sleep, dummy. Faith smiled and began to clear the ground of any sticks
or stones that might make sleeping here uncomfortable.
Duh, sleep. I was so focused on getting back to General Washington that I had almost
forgotten that I needed rest. In actuality, there was nothing I needed more than rest. I sat down
next to Faith and started to take off my uniform. Carefully, I nestled my boots off, one at a time,
to make sure that I didnt pop any blisters.
Ah, I let out an involuntary sigh of relief and extended my legs in front of me.
Henry! Faith shouted. Your feet! Look at them!
Yeah, theyre just blisters though, Ill be fine.
In reality, the blisters and my overall level of discomfort seemed to have effectively taken
my mind away from the bullet wound, which, I guess, was a good thing. More pain to cover up
the old pain. I get it Salvador, I get it. This is real. This is dangerous. The bandage was now
moist and cherry red it was time for a new one.