The Prey by Tom Isbell Page A

“Why, Dad? Why?” over and over.
    Hope wants nothing more than to cover her ears and block out the words. Her arm restraints prevent it.
    When Faith’s fever does finally break, Hope almost gets the feeling Dr. Gallingham is disappointed.
    â€œWell,” he says, dabbing a moisture-laden eye, “now we know to only administer half a dose.” He waddles out of the room.
    As soon as Hope and Faith are well enough to walk,they’re escorted down the stairs and shown the door.
    â€œHow did he know?” Faith asks.
    Hope looks at her sister. “How did who know what?”
    â€œThat doctor know about Dad?”
    Hope gives her head an angry shake. “He’s just saying that. He didn’t know him.”
    â€œBut he knew his name.”
    â€œThat doesn’t prove anything.”
    â€œBut he said—”
    â€œAnd I’m telling you that doesn’t prove anything.” Faith looks like a dog that’s just been kicked. Hope regrets her outburst almost at once.
    â€œLook,” Hope says, “go easy today, okay? You’re still weak.”
    Faith nods a trembling chin.
    â€œH and FT.”
    Faith musters a weak smile.
    The days are remarkably the same. Silent breakfasts. Tense roll calls. Work details in the afternoon followed by muted conversations over dinner. Each night, Hope wakes and hears the steady clinking sound. Each night she thinks of the boy named Book.
    Through it all, Faith clings to her sister’s side—practically attaches herself there—so when Hope returns from barn duties one afternoon to find Faith is missing, she feels a stab of panic.
    â€œHas anyone seen my sister?” Hope asks.
    The other girls just laugh.
    Hope searches everywhere: the barracks, the mess hall, even the tiny smokehouse. It isn’t until she gives a sideways glance toward the storehouse that she spies a pair of thin, pale legs dangling from the top window.
    Hope makes her way up the creaking stairs to the third floor, then edges through a labyrinth of pallets and cardboard boxes.
    Faith sits on a wooden crate. Draped over her shoulders is her ever-present pink shawl—the one their mother knitted way back when. She faces the woods on the far side of the barbed wire fence.
    Hope plops down beside her sister.
    â€œWhat’re you doing up here?”
    Faith doesn’t acknowledge her. Instead she says, “I found it.”
    â€œFound what?” Hope asks, but when her eyes drop to Faith’s side, her heart gives a lurch. There sits the crumpled piece of paper, the word Separate scrawled in charcoal. The note found in their father’s dying hand.
    â€œIt fell out of your pillow,” Faith says, her voice flat. “Is it Dad’s handwriting?”
    â€œYou know it is.”
    â€œWhen did he give it to you?”
    â€œHe didn’t. I found it in his hand after he died. If anything, he gave it to both of us.”
    â€œThen why didn’t you show it to me?”
    Hope has no good answer.
    â€œSo I was right,” Faith goes on. “He wanted us to separate so you could survive.”
    â€œSo we could both survive,” Hope corrects her.
    â€œIt was you he wanted to live. You said it yourself: I wouldn’t last a day in the wilderness on my own.”
    Hope picks up the scrap of paper and rips it into tiny pieces, angry she didn’t do it earlier. Extending her hand, she lets the fragments flutter to the earth like confetti.
    â€œDo you remember the goats?” Faith asks out of the blue. Her gaze is suddenly miles away.
    It takes a long moment for Hope to figure out what her sister is talking about. “Sure,” she says.
    â€œAnd the chickens?”
    â€œThe ones that pecked your shins?”
    â€œAnd those pigs?”
    â€œI swear I still smell ’em.”
    In earlier days, the memory might have prompted a laugh. The problem is they’ve long forgotten how. Smiling and laughter are