Текст книги "The Unbound"

Автор книги: Victoria Schwab

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

TWENTY-THREE

BY THE TIME I get to lunch, everyone else’s trays are stacked in the Alchemist’s outstretched arms and they’re sitting in a circle, chatting about Fall Fest. I’m surprised to see Safia on the steps, Amber’s elbow locked through hers as if holding her hostage.

“Hey, we missed you in Wellness,” says Cash as I climb the steps. “What happened?”

“I had a meeting,” I say, sitting down in the gap between Amber and Gavin. I pick at my food, watching bits of rice slide through the tines of my fork. “What did I miss?”

“Let’s see,” says Gavin, who usually spends most of Wellness stretched out on a weight bench, people-watching. “Amber tried to teach Cash yoga, Wesley boxed, and Saf flirted with a senior running on the track and nearly face-planted.”

Safia pitches an empty soda can at his head.

“I’m so sorry I missed that,” I say with a small smile. And then, in response to her gold-eyed death glare, I add, “I mean all of it. I’m having trouble picturing Cash in any of those poses.”

“I’ll have you know that I do a mean sun salutation.” He proceeds to hop up and demonstrate something that I can only imagine is loosely related to yoga. Everyone laughs and cheers him on, but Wesley finds my eyes across the circle and gives me a questioning look, so I dig my phone out of my bag and text him one word.

Therapy.

Cash has taken his seat again after collecting a healthy amount of applause, and the group is back to talking about Fall Fest.

“What is it exactly?” I ask.

“It’s just a dance,” says Wes.

“Just a dance?” says Cash with mock affront.

“It sets the tone for the entire year,” adds Safia.

“It’s the official back-to-school party,” explains Gavin. “Tomorrow night. It’s always the first of September, and the senior class is in charge of organizing it.”

“And it’s going to be a blast,” says Cash. “There’s music, and food, and dancing, and we’re going to end the night with fireworks.”

“Of course it’s Hyde,” cuts in Safia, “so the dress code’s killer strict. Most people just stay in uniform.”

“But there are no rules for hair and makeup,” says Gavin. “Some people treat it like a contest to see how strange you can get without breaking dress code.”

“Last year Saf and Cash both went with bright blue hair,” says Amber. “And Wes embraced his inner goth boy.”

“Seriously?” I say. Wesley winks at me, and I laugh. “I can’t imagine that.”

“Crazy, right?” she says. “Anyway, you can wear wacky jewelry or weird makeup or neon leggings.”

“It’s kind of awesome to see everyone as a stranger version of themselves,” says Gavin.

“You’re going, right, Mackenzie?” asks Amber.

I shake my head. “Sorry, don’t think so.” I’m pretty sure my house arrest doesn’t have a school dance loophole.

“Hey,” says Gavin, addressing me. “Is everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I ask.

“I heard you had to leave class.”

Wesley’s brow creases with concern. “You okay?”

“Wow,” I say, glancing at Safia, “word does travel fast around here.”

“Don’t look at me,” she says. “To talk about it I’d have to care, which I don’t. But I did hear a rumor about you and Cash this morning in front of the—”

“What happened?” cuts in Amber. “In class?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I didn’t feel well, so I left.”

“Cash’s crappy coffee,” offers Saf.

“Hey,” snaps Cash, “I only buy gourmet.”

“The corner store doesn’t have gourmet, and you know it.”

Saf and Cash start bickering, but Wes isn’t so quick to drop the subject. Are you all right? he mouths at me across the circle, giving me a weighted look. I force myself to nod. He looks skeptical, but then Cash turns to him and says, “Have you decided yet if you’re taking Elle or Merilee or Amber?”

Wesley, still considering me, says, “I’m not taking any of them.”

Safia gasps. “Wesley Ayers, going stag?”

He shrugs, finally turning his attention back to the group. “I didn’t want to pick just one and deprive the others of my company.” He flashes a crooked smile when he says it, but the line rings hollow.

“No one’s taking anyone,” announces Amber. “We’ll go as a group.”

“Screw your group,” says Safia. “I’ve already got a date.”

“You’ve been working hard enough to get one,” says Cash.

Saf throws a book at his head. It nearly hits Gavin, and the rest of lunch is a blur of chattering, bickering, and festival prep.

I barely hear a word they say.

As the lunch bell rings, I scribble another plea to the Archive.

Again it’s denied.

“When did Safia decide to join the Court?”

Amber and I are walking to Physiology, our shoes echoing against the science hall’s marble entryway.

“Ah, the migration,” says Amber cheerfully. “A time-honored tradition, really. Saf starts the school year determined to make a name for herself, climb the social ladder, build an entourage of minions—god knows enough of the first and second years are willing—and then she realizes something.”

“What’s that?”

Amber smiles and lifts her chin. “That the Court is, in fact, infinitely cooler than anyone else she’ll find at Hyde. She usually comes around before Fall Fest, and we welcome her back as though she never left. I’m sure she’d rather just ditch the act, but she’ll never admit she actually wants to hang out with Cash.”

And I’m sure Wesley has nothing to do with it, I think as Amber squints at me.

“Speaking of Cash—” she starts.

“Any new leads on the Judge Phillip case?” I say, changing the subject as obviously as possible. “Or Bethany?” Amber sighs, but takes the bait and shakes her head. “I haven’t seen Dad this stressed in ages. They put a new case on his plate this weekend. Another unsolvable. This one doesn’t even have a crime scene or a point of departure. Some guy just went for a morning run and never came back. The brother finally reported him missing.”

My stomach twists. Jason.

“How can they possibly expect him to solve that?” I ask.

Amber shrugs. “It’s his job, I guess. They act like he’s some miracle-worker. Trust me, he’s not.” Halfway up the stairs, she says, “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure thing.”

I expect her to ask why her father picked me up this weekend, but instead she asks, “How long have you known Wesley?”

“A couple months,” I say, rounding up. It certainly feels like longer.

“And how long do you think he’s been in love with you?”

I feel the heat creeping into my face. “We’re just friends.” Amber makes a sound of disbelief. “I mean, we’re close,” I add. Bonded by secrets and scars. “But we’re not…I don’t…I care about Wesley, and he cares about me.”

“Look,” she says as we reach the classroom, “I just met you, but I’ve known Wesley for ages. I can tell you that ‘he cares’ is an understatement.” Amber steps out of the way to let someone get to class. “Did you really kiss Cash this morning?”

“He kissed me,” I clarify, “and it ended right there.”

Amber waves a hand. “I don’t care about the details. The point is, I don’t want you playing games with Wes. He’s been through a lot, and I think he’s finally in a good place, and—”

“And you don’t think I’m good for him.”

The words hit like a blow, even though they’re mine. Because they’re true. I’m not good for him. At least, I haven’t been. I want to be. But how can I? I feel like a bomb waiting to go off; I don’t want him holding on to me when it does. But he won’t let go, and I can’t seem to, either.

“I didn’t say that,” says Amber. “It’s just…Gavin and Saf and Cash and I, we work really hard to keep him in that good place. He may live in a big house on a hill, but we’re his family. I don’t know how much you know about his life before you came into it, but he’s been hurt by a fair number of people. He may have put himself back together decently, but he’s not all the way there. And it’s obvious he cares about you a lot; so all I’m saying is, don’t hurt him, okay? Because it’s obvious you’re going through some things, too, and I want you to be really sure before you let him fall any harder for you. Be sure that you’re good for him.”

She opens the door. “And if you’re not, don’t let him fall at all.”

Mr. Lowell’s out, and the sub in Government spends the first half of the period reading everything Lowell’s already taught us straight off a handout, then decides that revolution is too heavy for a Monday and mercifully lets us go early. There’s a text from Mom saying she’s going to be late picking me up—I’m hoping I can use it as leverage when the topic of transport comes up again tomorrow morning—which leaves me with half an hour or so to kill. I send a third request to the Archive, then wander out onto the quad to wait for the reply.

Even though the bell hasn’t rung yet, a dozen gold-striped seniors are scattered around the quad assembling tents. I spot Wesley at the northern edge of the green, hammering steel rods into the grass.

Not the Wesley who hunts Histories, or the one who lies in bed with me, drowning my nightmares with his noise, but one who laughs and smiles and looks happy. It’s not that he doesn’t look that way when we’re together, but there’s an edge to him when I’m around. The strain of scars and shared secrets and worry shows in his face even when he smiles, even when he sleeps. I weigh him down.

A bone-deep sadness spreads through me as I realize something.

Wesley may be worth it, worth loving and worth letting in, but I can’t do it. I won’t. Not as long as there’s a target on my back. I can’t drag him into this mess. Amber was right. The last time he got pulled into my fight, he lost a day of his life. I won’t let him lose more, not because of me.

I retreat through campus, weaving from one path to another, the urge to move stronger than the desire to go anywhere in particular. Restless bones, that’s what Ben used to call it. I have never been able to sit still. Maybe Eric’s right, and being a part of the Archive isn’t just a job. Maybe it’s in my bones. Maybe I couldn’t be normal, even if I had a chance to try. Normal is like stillness: uncomfortable, unnatural. So I walk. And as I walk, a word scratches itself onto the paper in my palm.

Denied.

The answer hits like a dull blow as my feet carry me down the path. I don’t even realize I’ve heading for the Wellness Center until I look up and see the stone mantel. I pass through the lockers and into the massive gym.

With everyone either still in class or setting up for Fall Fest, the gym is a hollow white hull—similar to a Returns room, but vast and walled and full of equipment. It’s strange being in here alone, and yet it’s peaceful. Like the Archive used to be. The quiet here might not be as reverent, but it’s all-encompassing, and it reminds me of a time years ago when I was normal—or closer to it—and running was the nearest thing I had to peace.

When I ran, I lost myself.

I have been afraid of losing myself lately. Afraid of pushing too hard. Afraid of letting my guard down. Of letting go.

Now I step onto the track with a kind of abandon and start to run. At first it’s a jog, but then I go faster and faster, until I break into a full sprint, giving it everything I have. I haven’t run like this in days, weeks, years.

I run until the world blurs. Until I can’t breathe, can’t hear, can’t think. Until Owen is gone and the voids are gone and Agatha is gone and the Archive is gone and Wesley is gone and there is nothing but the sound of my shoes on the track and my pulse in my ears. I run until all my fears—the fear of losing my mind, my memories, my life—have bled away.

Time begins to slip, and for once, I don’t try to catch it.

I run until I feel like myself again.

I run until I find peace.

When my shoes finally slow and stop, I bend over my knees, breathing shallowly. Then I pace slowly in a circle, waiting for my heart to slow, my eyes closed in the middle of the empty gym. I focus on the sound of my pulse.

“Miss Bishop?” calls a gruff voice, and I drag my eyes open to find the gym teacher—the one who oversees the sparring ring, I think his name is Metz—trotting over with a clipboard.

“Sorry,” I say. “Am I not supposed to be here?”

Coach Metz waves the clipboard. “Whatever. None of the sports have started yet. Speaking of, you’re quite the runner. Have you considered track?” I shake my head. “You should,” he says. “You’re a natural.”

“Not sure I have the time, sir.”

“Gotta make time for the important things, Bishop. Tryouts are next week. Can I at least put your name down?”

I hesitate. Where will I be next week? Hunting Histories in the Narrows, or strapped to a chair having my memories carved out? What if next week this is all a bad dream and I’m alive and still me?

“We could use someone like you,” he adds.

“Okay,” I say. “Sure. Count me in.” It’s so small, but it’s something to cling to. A sliver of normal.

Coach Metz passes me the clipboard, and I write out my name and hand it back. He offers me a gruff nod of approval as he reads my name and makes a few notes in the margin.

“Good, good,” he grumbles. “Hyde honor at stake, need the speed…” And then he trots away, disappearing through a door at the other end of the gym marked OFFICES.

I sink onto the mats to stretch out. My muscles ache from the sudden burst of activity, but it’s a welcome pain. I lie down on the mat, going through my stretches; then I stare up at the ceiling and breathe, wondering: If the Archive came for me, would I run? Will it come to that?

My theory is getting thinner by the day. Everything pointed to a setup until Cash. Was the attack on him a mistake? A message? A punishment? Did they miss on purpose? Or were they trying to interrupt the pattern and weaken the theory? Questions trickle through me, and at the heart of all the hows and whys, the biggest question is who.

You’re getting tangled, Da would say. Most problems are simple at their center. You just gotta find the center.

What’s at the center of this problem?

The key.

You don’t technically have to be Crew to make a void—I wasn’t—so long as you have the right kind of key. But Crew are the only ones issued those keys, so the person making the voids is either Crew or someone who’s been given a Crew key. Roland gave me Da’s, so I know it’s possible. Would a Librarian really smuggle one out? Give it to a Keeper to bury the trail of guilt? What if Owen had other allies in the Archive besides Carmen? Could one of them be trying to get revenge? Librarians are Histories; can they be read like Histories? Is there some kind of postscript that records the time they’ve been in the service of the Archive after their lives have been compiled?

Would Agatha ever consider reading them? Or would she just pin the crimes on me instead? It wouldn’t fix the problem, wouldn’t change the fact that someone is doing this, but it would give her an out, a person to blame. And after our latest meeting, I have no doubt she plans to find me guilty of something. Why wouldn’t she sink me for this? It would be easy. All she has to do is claim I have Owen’s key.

I sit up, inhaling sharply.

Owen’s key. He had it on him when he went into the void. Agatha accused me of having it and I don’t, but he did. Maybe he still does.

It’s the one option I haven’t considered. Haven’t wanted to consider. Is it even possible? A void is a door to nowhere, but it’s still a door. And every door has two sides. What if the voids aren’t being opened from this side? What if someone isn’t throwing people in? What if they’re just trying to get out?

What if Owen’s trying to get to me?

No.

I fall back against the mat and force myself to breathe.

No. I have to stop. I have to stop seeing Owen in everything. I have to stop looking for him in every moment of my life. Owen Chris Clarke is gone. I have to stop bringing him back.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And then I feel the scratch of letters on the list and take it out, expecting another name. Instead I find a message:

Access granted. Good luck. —R

Roland. Something untangles in my chest. A thread of hope. A fighting chance. I get to my feet, and I’m nearly to the locker rooms when I hear the crash.

TWENTY-FOUR

IT CAME FROM somewhere across the gym.

The crash was far enough away to sound low, loud enough for it to echo around me, but it started in the far corner, the same direction Coach Metz went. I sprint across the gym floor and through the door marked OFFICES, only to find myself in a small hallway full of trophy cases. None of them seem disturbed, and besides, the crash was deep, like something heavy falling—not high, like breaking glass. Doorways stud the hall, each with a glass window insert; I make my way down the corridor, glancing in each room to see if anything’s off.

Three doors in, I look through the window and slam to a stop.

Beyond the glass is a storage room. Inside, it’s too dark to make out much more than the metal shelves, half of which have toppled over. I pull my sleeve down over my hand and test the door. It’s unlocked.

I step through, flicking on one of the three wall switches, illuminating the space just enough to better see the shelves. Two of them have fallen forward and caught each other on the way down. Balls and bats and helmets are now scattered across the storage room floor.

I’m so focused on not tripping on any of the equipment that I nearly slip on the blood.

I catch myself midstep and retreat from the fresh, wet slick on the concrete. I look up at the air above the blood, and my eyes slide off of a new void. The air catches in my throat as I listen for sounds of life around me, hearing only the thudding of my pulse.

But this scene is different from the others.

There was no blood at Judge Phillip’s house. None in Bethany’s driveway.

An aluminum baseball bat rests on the ground beside my shoe; I crouch and grab it (careful to keep my sleeve between the metal and my fingers to avoid leaving prints), then stand and turn in a slow circle, scanning the darker corners of the room for movement. I’m alone. It doesn’t feel like it, but that strange sense of wrong must be coming from the void door, because there’s no one here. My eyes flick back to the blood. Not anymore, at least.

I notice a clipboard resting facedown a foot away from the blood. When I turn it over with my shoe, I see my name written in my own hand, and my stomach twists. With a concerning clarity I realize this is evidence. I reach down and free the paper, pocketing it with a silent apology to the coach.

I clear the debris from the floor and kneel a foot or so behind the bloodstain, setting the bat to the side as I tug the ring from my finger and place it on the concrete. The void door will have burned through most of the memory, but maybe there’s something. I press my palm to the cold concrete, and the hum drifts up toward my hand. Then I stop.

Because something in the storage room moves.

Right behind me.

I feel the presence a second before I catch the movement in my periphery, first only a shadow, and then the glint of metal. I will myself to stay crouched and still, one hand pressed to the floor as the other drifts toward the bat a few inches from my grasp.

My hand wraps around the bat at the same instant the shadow surges toward me from behind, and I spring up and turn in time to block the knife that slices down through the air, the sound of metal on metal high and grinding.

My gaze goes over the bat and the blade to the figure holding it, taking in the silver-blond hair and the cold blue eyes that have haunted me for weeks. He smiles a little as he drags the knife along the aluminum.

Owen.

“Miss Bishop,” he says, sounding breathless. “I’ve been looking for you.”

He slices the knife down the length of the bat toward my hand, forcing me to shift my grip. As soon as I do, his shoe comes up sharply beneath the metal and sends it sailing into the air between us. In the time it takes the bat to fall, his knife vanishes into a holster against his back and he catches my boot with his bare hands as it connects with his chest. He twists my foot hard to the outside, knocking me off balance long enough to pluck the falling bat out of the air and swing it at my free leg. It catches me behind the knee, sending me backward onto the concrete.

I hit the ground and roll over and up onto my feet again as he lunges forward and I lunge back. Or at least I mean to, but I misjudge the distance and the toppled shelves come up against my shoulders an instant before he forces the bat beneath my chin. I get my hands up at the last second, but it’s all I can do to keep him from crushing my throat. For the first time I see the blood splashed against his fingers.

“Either you’ve gotten stronger,” he says, “or I’m worse off than I thought.”

“You’re not real,” I gasp.

Owen’s pale brow crinkles in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I be?” And then his eyes narrow. “You’re different,” he says. “What’s happened to you?” I try to force him off me, to get leverage on the bat, but he pins me in place and presses his forehead against mine. “What have they done?” he asks as the quiet—his quiet—spills through my head. Tangible in a way it never was in my dreams. No. No, this isn’t real. He isn’t real.

But he’s not like the Owen from my nightmares, either. When he pulls back, he looks…tired. The strain shows in his eyes and the tightness of his jaw, and this time when I try to fight back, it works.

“Get off of me,” I growl, driving my knee into his chest. He staggers backward, rubbing his ribs, and I grab the nearest bat and swing it at his head. But he catches it the instant before it can connect and rips the metal from my grip. It goes clanging across the concrete floor, bouncing through the pool of blood on its way and leaving a streak of red in its path.

“The least you could do is ask me how my trip was,” he says coldly, twirling the bat still in his hand.

He’s not real. He can’t be real. This is only happening because I thought of it. This is a hallucination…isn’t it? It has to be, because the alternative is worse.

Owen stops spinning the bat and leans on it. “Do you have any idea how much energy it takes to tear open a void from the other side?”

“Then how did you get out?”

“Perseverance,” he says. “The problem with these things…” He nods at the rip in the air and makes a small, exasperated sound. “Is they don’t stay open very long. As soon as someone gets dragged in, they snap shut. I couldn’t seem to get out first. I couldn’t go around them. Finally, I decided I had to go through them.” His eyes flick toward the blood. I think of Coach Metz’s body, floating in the void, torn in two by Owen’s knife, and my stomach twists. I curl my fingers around the metal shelf behind me.

“Messy business,” he says, running his blood-streaked fingers through his silver hair. “But here I am, and the question is—”

Owen doesn’t get a chance to finish. I pull the shelf as hard as I can, twisting out of the way just before it comes crashing down on top of him. But even in his current shape, he’s too fast. He darts out of the way, and the metal rings out against the concrete. A second later, the lights go out, plunging the storage room into darkness.

“Feistier than ever.” His voice wanders toward me. “And yet…”

I take a step back and his arm snakes around my throat from behind. “Different.” He pulls me sharply back and up, and I gasp for breath as my shoes lift off the floor.

“I should kill you,” he whispers. “I could.” I writhe and kick, but his hold doesn’t loosen. “You’re running out of air.” My chest burns, and my vision starts to blur. “It’s not such a bad way to go, you know. But the question is, is this how Mackenzie Bishop wants to die?”

I can’t get enough air to make the word, but I mouth it, I think it, with every fiber of my being.

No.

Just like that, Owen’s grip vanishes. I stagger forward and land on my hands and knees on the concrete, gasping, inches away from the streak of Metz’s blood.

My silver ring glints on the floor, and I grab the metal band and shove it on as I stagger to my feet and spin. But Owen’s no longer there. The signs of him—the toppled shelves, the blood—are there, but I’m alone. A door in the distance closes, and I storm through it into the brightly lit trophy hall…but there’s no sign of him. No sign at all. I hurry through the outer door and into the afternoon light. Again, nothing. Only the distant laughter of students setting up Fall Fest. The green is dotted with a huddle of sophomore girls. A freshman boy. A pair of teachers.

But Owen is gone.

I spend ten minutes in the girls’ locker room, washing the coach’s blood off my skin.

I didn’t track any of it out of the storage room, but there are traces on me—my arm, my hand, my throat—from Owen’s grip, and I scrub everywhere he touched. When I’m done, I wash my face with cold water over and over and over, as if that will help.

I can’t bring myself to go back.

There are no prints, nothing to tie me to the room—the crime scene, I realize with a shiver—and the longer it’s there, the greater chance of somebody finding it. I can’t have them finding me with it.

Mom sends a text that says she’s waiting in the lot, and I force my legs to carry me away from the scene and through campus, past students who have no idea that Metz is nothing more than a drying red slick on a concrete floor. Or that it’s my fault.

Sako is leaning up against a tree nearby, and her eyes follow me as I pass. She’s not just watching anymore. She’s waiting. Like a hunting dog, kept back until the gun goes off. I know how much she wants to hear the bang. A new wave of nausea hits me as I realize that if Owen is real, she’ll get her chance. Agatha will run out of Crew. What am I supposed to tell her when she does? That I know who made the void doors? That the History I sent into the abyss clawed his way back into the Outer using the key I helped him assemble? The only reason she pardoned me before was because Owen was gone.

He was supposed to stay gone.

He is gone.

He wasn’t real.

But the blood—the blood is real, isn’t it? I saw it.

Just like I saw Owen.

“Is everything okay?” Mom asks as I slump into the passenger seat.

“Long day,” I murmur, thankful for once that we’re not really on speaking terms. Numbness has crept through my chest and settled there, solidifying. I know distantly that it’s a bad thing—Da would have something to say about it, I’m sure—but right now I welcome any small bit of steadiness, even if it’s unnatural.

I close my eyes as Mom drives. And then to fill the quiet, she starts to sing to herself, and my blood goes cold. I recognize the tune. There are hundreds of thousands of other songs she could sing, but she doesn’t choose any of them. She chooses Owen’s. He only ever hummed the melody. She adds the words.

“…my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

My skin starts to crawl.

“…you make me happy…when skies are gray…”

“Why are you singing that song?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking. She trails off.

“I heard you humming it,” she says.

“When?”

“A few days ago. It’s pretty. Used to be popular, a long time ago. My mother used to sing it when she cooked. Where did you hear it?”

My throat goes dry as I look out the window. “I don’t remember.”

I follow the humming through the halls.

It is just loud enough to hold on to. I wind through the Narrows, and the melody leads me all the way back to my numbered doors and to Owen. He’s leaning back against the door with the I chalked into its front, and he’s humming to himself. His eyes are closed, but when I step toward him, they drift open, crisp and blue, and consider me.

“Mackenzie.”

I cross my arms. “I was beginning to wonder if you were real.”

He arches a brow, almost playfully. “What else would I be?”

“A phantom?” I say. “An imaginary friend?”

“Well then,” he says, his mouth curling up, “am I all that you imagined?”

The moment we are home—safe within the walls of the apartment—I sit down at the kitchen table, pull my phone from my pocket, and text Wesley.

No sleepover tonight.

A moment later he texts back.

Is everything okay?

No, I want to say. I think Owen might be back and I can’t tell the Archive because it’s my fault—he’s my fault—and I need your help. But you can’t be here because I can’t stand the thought of him coming for me and finding you. If he’s even real.

Do I want him to be real? Which is worse, Owen in my head, or flesh and blood and free? He felt real. But real people don’t just disappear.

He’s not real, whispers another voice in my head. You’ve just lost it.

Cracked little head, echoes Sako.

Broken, whispers Owen.

Weak, adds Agatha.

Finally I text Wesley back.

I’m just tired.

Can’t keep running.

Or hiding.

Have to face my bad dreams sooner or later.

The grim truth is, I’m not afraid to fall asleep, because my nightmare is already coming true. I sit at the table waiting for his reply. Finally it comes.

I’ll miss your noise.

The numbness in my chest begins to thaw, and I turn the phone off before I can break down and write back. It takes everything I have to sit through dinner, to muster up some semblance of poise and scrounge together words about school. I only bother because skipping would lead to more worry, but the instant the dishes are clear, I escape to my room. My chest tightens when I see the open window, and I move to slide it shut. I hesitate, my fingers still wrapped around the lip.

There are three names on the list in my pocket. Part of me thinks they are the least of my problems, but the other part clings to this last vestige of duty, or at least control. I consider the climb to the apartment above, and then the drop.

“Mackenzie?” I turn to find my mother in the doorway. She’s looking directly at me. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I answer automatically.

She continues to look me in the eyes. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish, and I can tell she’s still trying to form the words: I’m sorry. But when she finally speaks up, all she says is, “Better shut the window. It’s supposed to rain.”

My attention drifts back to the drop—what was I thinking? I barely made it up that wall last night with Wesley helping me—and I pull the window closed, and say good night. Mom surprises me by pulling the door shut behind her. It’s a small step, but it’s something.

As soon as she’s gone, I collapse onto the bed. Beyond the walls of my room, I can hear my parents talking in low voices as they shuffle through the apartment, and past them, the far-off sounds of the Coronado shutting down, the tenants retreating, the traffic on the street ebbing to a trickle and then to nothing. I realize how quiet it is in this room, without sleep and without Wesley. Some people might find it peaceful. Maybe I would, too, if my head weren’t so cluttered.