He found a place deeply hidden in the trees, took the newchild there, and lay down, holding Gabriel in his arms.
Gabe struggled cheerfully as if it were a wrestling game, the kind they had played back in the dwelling, with tickles and laughter.
“Sorry, Gabe,” Jonas told him. “I know it’s morning, and I know you just woke up. But we have to sleep now.”
He cuddled the small body close to him, and rubbed the little back. He murmured to Gabriel soothingly.
Then he pressed his hands firmly and transmitted a memory of deep, contented exhaustion.
Gabriel’s head nodded, after a moment, and fell against Jonas’s chest. Together the fugitives slept through the first dangerous day.
The most terrifying thing was the planes. By now, days had passed; Jonas no longer knew how many.
The journey had become automatic: the sleep by days, hidden in underbrush and trees; the finding of water;
the careful division of scraps of food, augmented by what he could find in the fields.
And the endless, endless miles on the bicycle by night. His leg muscles were taut now.
They ached when he settled himself to sleep. But they were stronger, and he stopped now less often to rest.
Sometimes he paused and lifted Gabriel down for a brief bit of exercise, running down the road or through a field together in the dark.
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