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"What the hell are you?"
Luke's gun is pointed right at my chest. The barrel doesn't shake. His eyes don't blink.
I don't answer. Can't. My throat's still tight from not feeding, and Amy's blood is all over my hands. I can smell it—sweet, wrong. I want to run but my legs won't move.
"Answer me." He cocks the hammer.
Then someone screams.
It's high and sharp and comes from the front of the train. Luke's head snaps toward the sound. So does mine. Another scream. Then shouting—men yelling about the river.
Luke swears and lowers the gun. Not all the way. Just enough. "We're not done."
He runs toward the noise.
I should run the other way. Should grab what little I own and disappear into the brush. But Amy's still sitting there with her hand wrapped in my spare shirt, staring at me with those big confused eyes.
"Miss Qin? What's happening?"
"Stay here," I tell her. My English is terrible but she understands. "Don't move."
I run after Luke.
The front of the train is chaos. Half the wagons are already across the river. The other half are stuck on this side, and the water's rising—was supposed to be a safe crossing, shallow, slow, but the rain last night changed things.
Mr. Garrett is shouting orders nobody's listening to. His face is red. Two men are trying to calm the oxen hitched to the Kowalski wagon, but the animals are spooked, pulling sideways. The wagon's sliding toward the deep part.
Mrs. Kowalski is screaming. Not because of the wagon. Because her daughter's inside.
"Emma! Emma, get out!"
I don't see Emma. I see the wagon tilt. I see the current grab it.
Then I see Amy running past me.
"Amy, no!" It's her father. He's too far back. Too slow.
Amy's fast. Faster than any of the adults expect. She ducks under Mr. Garrett's arm and splashes into the water, trying to reach the Kowalski wagon. Trying to help Emma.
The current hits her.
She goes under.
I don't think. I just move.
The water's cold. I don't feel it the way I used to. My body doesn't care about cold anymore. Doesn't care about breathing. I push through the current like it's nothing.
Amy's ahead. Her head breaks the surface once. Her mouth's open—can't scream, can't breathe. Then she's under again.
I'm faster in the water than I should be. Stronger. I catch her before the current drags her into the rocks. My hand locks around her wrist and I pull her up.
She coughs. Gasps. Grabs onto me.
"I got you," I say. The words come out wrong but she hears them.
Then the Kowalski wagon tips.
It goes over sideways. The current shoves it right into us. I twist and take the hit with my back—should break ribs, doesn't—but it does knock Amy out of my arms.
She screams. Her hand slips. The current takes her under the wagon.
No.
I go under.
The water's dark. Murky. I can see better than I should. The wagon's on its side, half-sunk, the current pinning it against the rocks. And Amy's underneath.
She's trapped. Her dress caught on something. She's pulling at it but it won't come free. Her eyes are wide. Panicking. She sees me and reaches out.
I grab the wagon floor. Pull. It doesn't move. The current's too strong. The wood's too thick.
Amy's mouth opens. Bubbles come out.
I stop thinking.
I dig my nails into the wood and pull. The boards crack. Splinter. I rip the first one free and throw it aside. Then the second. My hands are moving faster than they should, stronger than they should. I tear a hole in the wagon floor big enough for a person.
I reach through and grab Amy. Yank her free. Her dress rips—I don't care. I pull her out and kick off the rocks. We break the surface together.
Amy's not breathing.
I swim for the shore. The current fights me. I fight back harder. My arms don't get tired. Don't slow down. I drag us both onto the rocks and lay Amy down.
"Breathe," I say. I shake her. "Amy. Breathe."
She doesn't.
I've seen this before. On the railroad. Men pulled from cave-ins, water in the lungs. I watched the white foremen push on their chests. Saw some of them come back.
I put my hands on Amy's chest and push. Once. Twice. Water comes up. She coughs. Gasps. Her eyes open.
"Miss Qin?"
"I'm here."
She coughs again and grabs my arm. She's shaking. Crying. I pull her up and she buries her face in my shoulder.
"You're okay," I tell her. My English is still bad but the tone is enough. "You're okay."
Footsteps behind me. Heavy boots on rocks.
I turn.
Luke's standing there. He's soaked—must have come in after us. But he's not looking at Amy.
He's looking at me.
At my hands. Still dripping. No cuts. No blood. I broke a wagon apart underwater with my bare hands and there's not a scratch on me.
At my chest. Not moving. I haven't taken a breath since I surfaced. Haven't needed to.
His face goes hard.
"Yeah," he says. His hand moves to his belt. To the gun. "Now I'm sure."
Amy lifts her head from my shoulder.
"Sure of what?"