They’re carrying Adam away.
“Wait—” I trip out of the car. “Wait! I want to go with him—”
“Not now.” Kenji stops me. Softens. “You can’t be with him for what they need to do. Not now.”
“What do you mean? What are they going to do to him?” The world is fading in and out of focus, shades of gray flickering as stilted frames, broken movements. Suddenly nothing makes sense.
Suddenly everything is confusing me. Suddenly my head is a piece of pavement and I’m being trampled to death. I don’t know where we are. I don’t know who Kenji is. Kenji was Adam’s friend. Adam knows him. Adam. My Adam. Adam who is being taken away from me and I can’t go with him and I want to go with him but they won’t let me go with him and I don’t know why— “They’re going to help him—Juliette—I need you to focus. You can’t fall apart right now. I know it’s been a crazy day—but I need you to stay calm.” His voice. So steady. So suddenly articulate.
“Who are you . . . ?” I’m beginning to panic. I want to grab James and run but I can’t. He’s done something to James and even if I knew how to wake him up, I can’t touch him. I want to rip my nails out. “Who are you—”
Kenji sighs. “You’re starving. You’re exhausted. You’re processing shock and a million other emotions right now. Be logical. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe now. Adam is safe. James is safe.”
“I want to be with him—I want to see what they’re going to do to
him—”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“What are you going to do to me? Why did you bring me here . . . ?” My eyes are wide, darting in every direction. I’m spinning, stranded in the middle of the ocean of my own imagination and I don’t know how to swim. “What do you want from me?”
Kenji looks down. Rubs his forehead. Reaches into his pocket. “I
really didn’t want to have to do this.”
I think I’m screaming.
FORTY-THREE
I’m an old creaky staircase when I wake up.
Someone has scrubbed me clean. My skin is like satin. My eyelashes are soft, my hair is smooth, brushed out of its knots; it gleams in the artificial light, a chocolate river lapping the pale shore of my skin, soft waves cascading around my collarbone. My joints ache; my eyes burn from an insatiable exhaustion. My body is naked under a heavy sheet. I’ve never felt so pristine.
I’m too tired to be bothered by it.
My sleepy eyes take inventory of the space I’m in, but there’s not much to consider. I’m lying in bed. There are 4 walls. 1 door. A small table beside me. A glass of water on the table. Fluorescent lights
humming above me. Everything is white.
Everything I’ve ever known is changing.
I reach for the glass of water and the door opens. I pull the sheet
up as high as it will go.
“How are you feeling?”
A tall man is wearing plastic glasses. Black frames. A simple sweater. Pressed pants. His sandy-blond hair falls into his eyes.
He’s holding a clipboard.
“Who are you?”
He grabs a chair I hadn’t noticed was sitting in the corner. Pushes it forward. Sits down beside my bed. “Do you feel dizzy?
Disoriented?”
“Where’s Adam?”
He’s holding his pen to a sheet of paper. Writing something down.
“Do you spell your last name with two rs? Or just one?”
“What did you do with James? Where’s Kenji?”
He stops. Looks up. He can’t be more than 30. He has a crooked nose. A day of scruff. “Can I at least make sure you’re doing all
right? Then I’ll answer your questions.
I promise. Just let me get through the basic protocol here.”
I blink.
How do I feel. I don’t know.
Did I have any dreams. I don’t think so.
Do I know where I am. No.
Do I think I’m safe. I don’t know.
Do I remember what happened. Yes.
How old am I. 17.
What color are my eyes. I don’t know.
“You don’t know?” He puts down his pen. Takes off his glasses.
“You can remember exactly what happened yesterday, but you don’t know the color of your own eyes?”
“I think they’re green. Or blue. I’m not sure. Why does it matter?”
“I want to be sure you can recognize yourself. That you haven’t lost sight of your person.”
“I’ve never really known my eye color, though. I’ve only looked in the mirror once in the last three years.”
The stranger stares at me, his eyes crinkled in concern. I finally
have to look away.
“How did you touch me?” I ask.
“I’m sorry?”
“My body. My skin. I’m so . . . clean.”
“Oh.” He bites his thumb. Marks something on his papers. “Right.
Well, you were covered in blood and filth when you came in, and you had some minor cuts and bruises. We didn’t want to risk infection.
Sorry for the personal intrusion—but we can’t allow anyone to bring that kind of bacteria in here. We had to do a superficial detox.”
“That’s fine—I understand,” I hurry on. “But how?”
“Excuse me?”
“How did you touch me?” Surely he must know. How could he not know? God I hope he knows.
“Oh—” He nods, distracted by the words he’s scribbling on his clipboard. Squints at the page. “Latex.”
“What?”
“Latex.” He glances up for a second. Sees my confusion.
“Gloves?”
“Right.” Of course. Gloves. Even Warner used gloves until he figured it out.
Until he figured it out. Until he figured it out. Until he figured it out.
I replay the moment over and over and over in my mind. The split second I took too long to jump from the window. The moment of hesitation that changed everything. The instant I lost all control. All power. Any point of dominance. He’s never going to stop until he
finds me and it’s my own fault.
I need to know if he’s dead.
I have to force myself to be still. I have to force myself not to shake, shudder, or vomit. I need to change the subject. “Where are my clothes?” I toy with the perfect white sheet hiding my bones.
“They’ve been destroyed for the same reasons you needed to be sanitized.” He picks up his glasses. Slips them on. “We have a special suit for you. I think it’ll make your life a lot easier.”
“A special suit?” I look up. Part my lips in surprise.
“Yes. We’ll get to that part a bit later.” He pauses.
Smiles. There’s a dimple in his chin. “You’re not going to attack me
like you did Kenji, are you?”
“I attacked Kenji?” I cringe.
“Just a little bit.” He shrugs. “At least now we know he’s not immune to your touch.”
“I touched him?” I sit up straight and nearly forget to pull my sheet up with me. I’m burning from head to toe, blushing through my mind,
clutching at the sheet like a lifeline.
“I’m so sorry—”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate the apology.” Blondie is studying his notes religiously, suddenly fascinated by his own handwriting. “But
it’s all right. We’ve been expecting some destructive tendencies.
You’ve been having one hell of a week.”
“Are you a psychologist?”
“Sort of.” He brushes the hair away from his forehead.
“Sort of?”
He laughs. Pauses. Rolls the pen between his fingers. “Yes. For all intents and purposes, I am a psychologist. Sometimes.”
“What is that supposed to mean . . . ?”
He parts his lips. Presses them shut. Seems to consider answering me but examines me instead. He stares for so long I feel my face go hot. He starts scribbling furiously.
“What am I doing here?” I ask him.
“Recovering.”
“How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been asleep for almost fourteen hours. We gave you a pretty powerful sedative.” Looks at his watch. “You seem to be doing well.” Hesitates. “You look very well, actually. Stunning, really.”
I have a handful of scrambled words in my mouth. A blush flushing up my face. “Where’s Adam?”
He takes a deep breath. Underlines something on his papers. His
lips twitch into a smile.
“Where is he?”
“Recovering.” He finally looks up.
“He’s okay?”
Nods. “He’s okay.”
I stare at him. “What does that mean?”
2 knocks at the door.
The bespectacled stranger doesn’t move. He rereads his notes.
“Come in,” he calls.
Kenji walks inside, a little hesitant at first. He peeks at me, his eyes cautious. I never thought I’d be so happy to see him. But while it’s a relief to see a face I recognize, my stomach immediately twists
into a knot of guilt, knocking me over from the inside. I wonder how badly I must’ve hurt him. He steps forward.
My guilt disappears.
I look more closely and realize he’s perfectly unharmed. His leg is working fine. His face is back to normal. His eyes are no longer puffy, his forehead is repaired, smooth, untouched. He was right.
He does have a spectacular face.
A defiant jawline. Perfect eyebrows. Eyes as pitch-black as his
hair. Sleek. Strong. A bit dangerous.
“Hey, beautiful.”
“I’m sorry I almost killed you,” I blurt out.
“Oh.” He startles. Shoves his hands into his pockets. “Well. Glad we got that out of the way.” I notice he’s wearing a destroyed T-shirt.
Dark jeans. I haven’t seen anyone wear jeans in such a long time.
Army uniforms, cotton basics, and fancy dresses are all I’ve known lately.
I can’t really look at him. “I panicked,” I try to explain. I clasp and
unclasp my fingers.
“I figured.” He cocks an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
I nod. “You look better.”
He cracks a grin. Stretches. Leans against the wall, arms crossed at his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. “This must be difficult for
you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Looking at my face. Realizing I was right. Realizing you made the wrong decision.” He shrugs. “I understand. I’m not a proud man, you know. I’d be willing to forgive you.”
I gape at him, unsure whether to laugh or throw something. “Don’t make me touch you.”
He shakes his head. “It’s incredible how someone can look so right and feel so wrong. Kent is a lucky bastard.”