MARY TRIED TO blink the rain and tears and strands of wet hair from her eyes. “Dylan? Is that you?”“Grab my hand,” Dylan repeated. He was crouching, his arms outstretched. His own sodden hair flicked back and forth as he whipped his head around in near panic like a trapped animal. “Come on—do it!”Mary reached up and fumbled with Dylan’s hands, grabbing his wrists with her freezing fingers as he did the same to hers. The rain was picking up again; big drops spattered on her shoulders and face as Dylan leaned backward and heaved, pulling her upward. She nearly screamed as her bare ankle scraped against rough tree roots and stones. Dylan was grimacing, his eyes clenched tight, his face crimson with the effort.I can’t get out, Mary thought, biting her lip at the pain as the roots scraped against her rib cage, tearing the green fabric that Amy Twersky had paid so much for—the fabric you were warned not to dry-clean too often, since it was so delicate. He’s not going to be able to do it; he’s not strong enough.But he was.
