Her voice was laced with pessimism—heavy, like she’d inhaled mud.
“Really? So the turbines are down?” In all my life, I’d never seen them go completely down. If electricity couldn’t be relied upon to help them spin, there were sixteen huge generators, so expensive my dad used to call them “Milo’s College Fund.”
“Down,” she confirmed. “Down, down, down.”
I was surprised she’d come home.
Mom seemed to read my mind. Standing up, she staggered to the ’frige, returning with a shrink-wrapped casserole dish full of the previous night’s sesame chicken and rice. “I wanted to check on you,” she told me, her eyes darting meaningfully between the food and me. “Stan says the weather service saw something about an hour ago. They say it was lightning. I think all of Golden’s out of power, and I heard parts of Denver are too. I knew you were in the woods…” She shook her head.
She dropped a scoop of the orange-crusted chicken on both our plates, then turned to the microwave and shook her head. “No power, no microwave.” She opened the ’frige, sticking both plates in without covering them. Then she pulled her cell out of her coat pocket and stared at it. “Guess the generator here’s gone, too,” she murmured.
“I don’t mind cold chicken.”
Mom didn’t answer, just stared at her crackberry’s screen.
“Is there anything I can do? Can I help somehow?”
“What?” She glanced up, brows drawn tight. I watched her punch a few things into her phone. Then she stepped over to the window.
“Damnit.”
After a second there, she grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “I’m sorry, Mil. I’ve got to go back up. It’s something new. Get that mini generator from my closet. I…”
Love you?
I wondered for a second as I watched the back door shut. Then I turned around and headed for the front.
6
I watched her as she stalked the wide, flat lawn, hands cupping her mouth, shouting “Nick!” into the wet, cold, inky night. I followed from a distance, pummeled by rain so hard it stung my ears and neck and, later, drowned out Milo’s voice.
It would have been smart to take cover or backtrack toward the creek. I told myself I would, but the rain became a storm and the storm got more intense, and Milo kept roaming—boots sloshing in deep puddles, hood drooping around her wet head.
I followed her, hiding behind fencing, firs, and finally nothing. The rain was coming down too hard for her to see me. She tripped by the side of her house, and I stepped toward her without thinking. My heart was pounding. It kept on when she got up and didn’t go away until she disappeared through her front door.
I watched the back of her house, then measured the lines of the house, somehow identified the points of stress. When eyes landed on the Mitchells’ satellite, I got another weird feeling. I turned my face to the sky, shielding my eyes with icy fingers. I thought about the satellites orbiting—13,311 that were functional. How did I know that? Before I could guess my knees buckled, and I dropped to the soggy ground.
I felt woozy, dizzy—the dart. I wondered what was in it, and then the answer was right there, in my head. Not exactly a “voice,” but just as firm.
Dan-inject…5.1 milligrams ketamine hydrochloride…1.1 milligrams xylazine hydrochloride per kilograms of body mass—
THE PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIFESTATIONS VARY IN SEVERITY BETWEEN PLEASANT DREAM-LIKE STATES, VIVID IMAGINARY, HALLUCINATIONS, AND EMERGENCE DELIRIUM—
I saw that picture, and by then I wanted shit to stop. I tried to snap out of it, get myself grounded, but I didn’t know who the hell I was.
I thought about the rain, and more came at me.
Winds 71 mph…2.75 inches rain in 1 hour, 37 minutes, 7.99006 seconds. Straight-line winds…83 mph. Macroburst.
Okay, it was the dart. It caused— Ugh. I didn’t know it caused hallucinations! That information had come from a hallucination.
While I was freaking the eff out, Milo came out onto the roof deck on the back of her house, carrying a telescope. I put all my attention on her and that helped. She pointed the telescope down and out, and I realized she was looking for me.
I stood in the grass, wet and jerking from the cold. She swung the telescope my way but didn’t see me.
I saw her.
I watched with more than curiosity. With more than gratitude. Looking at her, I felt…substantiated. Warm.
And when she went back inside, I felt like I had disappeared.
The rain had slowed, more like a normal storm, but that didn’t help me. My clothes were soaked. My eyes burned from the wind. I couldn’t think, not without feeling like I was losing my mind. I looked in the direction of the creek, but I knew I couldn’t get there in the dark.
Finally I leaned my back against the Mitchells’ guest house, a small log cabin. The roof jutted out just enough to offer some cover for my head and shoulders. My hair—deep auburn, if the window reflection could be believed—hung into my eyes. I shoved at it and fixed my gaze on the third-floor windows. They were tall and wide, and between two of them, I saw a door.
I watched for 41 minutes and 10 seconds, until the light went off. I kept watching, counting the raindrops that landed on my right knee—5,011—until I wasn’t sure how long I had been watching.
I shut my eyes and there it was: 6 hours…26 minutes…4.6 seconds.
I groaned. The worst part was, I didn’t feel crazy. Everything that popped into my head felt right. But I couldn’t trust myself—I had to stick with facts—or I really would be crazy.
I wiggled my freezing fingers into my pocket and removed the only clue I had: a small red whistle.
3.6 inches long and .08 wide…alloy 1090.
Again, I knew it, and I knew I shouldn't. But I felt sure of it, just like I felt sure that the whistle was important.
I held it to my lips…and I knew I didn’t want to blow it.
I closed it in my numb fist and forced myself through the soggy yard, then up the wet, wood stairs. I crossed the deck, and took the last few stairs up to the third story.
For a while, I just stood in front of her door. I told myself only an idiot would try to get inside. If I frightened Milo, she or her mother would call the police, and I’d be taken away. In the same way I knew I didn’t want to blow my whistle, I knew that was something I didn’t want.
I wondered, as I lingered outside her door, pelted by rain drops, why I couldn’t remember anything. What was wrong with me, and when had it started? Had it been the drug inside her dart—I refused to name it—or something else? Something before? The answer was, like most things now, out of my reach.
I remembered opening my eyes and seeing her face; the sharp warmth in my chest, like swallowing a flame. She was pretty. Beautiful, if I was being honest. Long, thick hair—dark brown with a sheen of red. Wide eyes, sage with tiny flecks of brown. Plush and rosy lips. High-boned cheeks that curved when she smiled.
I eyed the door’s brass handle, thinking how I shouldn’t touch it. I’d bolted when her mom came home. Instinct. Knowledge? Intuition, maybe, like everything else I “knew.”
Screw intuition.
Moving quickly now, purposefully, I retrieved the dinner plate and glass from the spot where I’d stashed them and returned to the door. I raised my hand to knock, but something told me try the doorknob.
It turned.
But in the next moment, a shrieking whine filled my ears. Alarm. I turned a circle, my gaze flicking over dresser, rug, bed, her. I jerked my eyes to the right, and there it was: a small white panel by the door frame. Later, this would make more sense. Later—not so much later—everything would fit together like a puzzle I’d wish I never opened.
But then, it wasn’t even a decision. I lifted my hand, and my fingers flew over the keypad. This time, I didn’t “see” or think anything; I just did it. And it worked. The piercing noise snuffed out; the flashing red light turned placid green.
I’d disabled her alarm.
&n
bsp; I sucked air, got nothing. My vision blurred. Within arms’ reach, there was a rocking chair. I sank into it, staring at my hands as I trembled with exhilaration and cold.
How had I done that? What was wrong with me? Wrong with me? This was great. It was wrong. What did it mean?
My eyes settled on the small lump under the sheets, and my anxiety receded. I pulled off my muddy shoes and sat them upside down on her rug. It was a geometrical pattern I recognized as paisley, lots of bright colors—lime green, pink, purple, yellow, blue. My eyes landed on her bedding next: blue and green, tie-dyed; her headboard had three wide-eyed owls carved into it.
I knew the angles, could guess at the tools used, but I still wanted to touch it. To experience it. I thought next about touching her.
The thought burned. Good or bad? I couldn’t tell. It overwhelmed.
I turned away, off-balance, and took in the rest of her room. Bookshelves: packed. Dresser: stacked with frames and Star Wars figurines. They made me… glad. I felt drawn to Star Wars. Maybe I even liked it.
I glanced left, eyes falling on a tack board over her tiny purple desk. I stepped toward it, glanced back at her sleeping form—
37 breaths in 3 minutes…entering REM sleep—
I pulled my focus to her tack board. In the pictures on it, she was smiling. Her hair was long and short, curled and spiky. In one snapshot, it was even dyed bright blue. In some of them she wasn’t smiling. She was thin, and wore dark-rimmed glasses, and behind the lenses her eyes were glassy.
Looking at them made my chest hot again. That sharp feeling, that always-new feeling I for some reason couldn’t name.
I paced, noticing a smaller shelf with DVDs. I wondered what was on the DVDs, and that thing happened—worse this time. Everything collapsed in on itself, leaving behind only data, raw forms I couldn't make sense of; they became numbers, symbols, equations, colors. I stumbled forward because space had lost meaning. But my hand touched what became a wall, cool wall, just below a wooden rack of necklaces.
I gasped, sucked in another breath, panting, my heart beating, thundering—
207 beats per minute. 208. 209.
I shut my eyes and felt a crushing pressure—everywhere.
I was bent over, clutching my collar, seeing spots. I struggled to find something to focus on. Something neutral. I tried to tell myself that this was good. That what I experienced could be normal for someone regaining their memories; but I was still scared.
Milo had a map of the world, hanging on a door that might have led to a closet or a bathroom. I looked at it, at the jagged tan-green outlines, wrapped in blue. Looking at it was like remembering a secret. It was an ugly bulge behind the curtain of my mind. I could feel it shifting. Instead of grabbing it, I tried to shove it back.
7
That morning, I opened my eyes and saw light. Which was weird. Since my...issues started a few months after Dad died, I'd had trouble sleeping through the night. Even though I was fine, really, my sleep pattern seemed permanently screwed. I almost always awoke to tomb-still air and dark windows. I would stumble into the bathroom, gulp water from the sink, and pad back to bed, where I would sleep, dreamless, until my alarm bleeped.
The next thing I noticed, after the time—6:21 AM, according to my solar clock—was the rain—it had stopped. The light through my bedroom’s large, rectangular windows was soft and gold. The sky, visible from my lying-down angle just under the flat line of the upper window pane, was blinding pink. No freakish black clouds. Not one thing out of the ordinary. Except for me.
I felt…strange.
Maybe it was the silence. I noticed, lying there, that our mini generator had cycled off. My room was warm, unusually muggy for October. I threw off my comforter and reached down to scratch behind my knee.
My mind had already turned to Nick when I saw him, so it took me a second to realize he was real.
Omigod.
That was so Nick, and he was definitely real. He sat in my old wooden rocking chair, one ankle resting on his knee, his sopping wet dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. His gorgeous auburn hair was drying in a million loose-loop curls.
In the gentle glow of the sun, his face had a porcelain quality, a kind of untouchable-ness that made him seem slightly fake, like a beautiful mannequin come alive. His cheekbones were movie star high, his eyes preternaturally dark in such a fair face. It was odd, considering the circumstances, but to me they seemed wise. As he sat there, looking at me, I felt looked through. Cracked open. His expressive mouth was tilted down—dark pink, assessing.
I jerked the covers over my chest and stared back at him. “What are you doing here?”
Nick stood, elegance unfolding, wider and taller than I remembered. He reached down to the floor and produced his plate and jam glass.
“I wanted to return these.”
His voice was fine, thick static—rough and smooth in one. I thought that if I closed my eyes, I could fall asleep wrapped in it. Except why the heck would I want to close my eyes?
He held his dishes out, and I leaned forward to take them, lying them dumbly on my sheets. Sitting there in my bed, wearing only a long-sleeved Give a Hoot—Don’t Pollute! tee, I felt vulnerable and small. I waited for Nick to speak, but he seemed content to stare.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. My cheeks were burning. His fault. “Were you in my house this whole time?!” The whole time meaning the whole time I slept.
He didn’t answer, just dipped his head back toward the door that led onto the roof.
Had I locked it? Clearly not. I thought about Freud, how Dad used to say maybe accidents weren’t really accidents at all, and I wondered what kind of idiot I was.
It’s not like I wanted to see him again. I was worried.
I still was.
“Did the alarm go off?”
Nick’s eyes flicked to the keypad, but he shook his head.
“How long have you been here?”
He shrugged. “One-hour, forty— Hour and a half or something.”
I felt my neck flush. “What were you doing?” My voice cracked there; how embarrassing. I decided pretty quickly that I didn’t want to know what he’d been doing.
“Where’d you go?” I blurted before he could answer. “I tried to find you.”
He laughed, a light sound at odds with his grave face. “So did I.”
Which meant he hadn’t remembered anything. Why did I feel relieved? I wanted him to get his memory back.
I sat up straighter, still clutching my covers. “So…nothing?”
He shook his head. He hesitated. “I need to go back to the creek. Search the whole area.”
"Do you think...there's a clue or something?"
He shrugged. "I don't know." He rubbed the bridge of his nose, like a college professor. “We didn’t do any kind of search."
That was a good point; we could have easily missed something.
I eyed what remained of his tux: untucked dress shirt and slacks, both soaked and clinging to his large, very fit body. They were probably ruined. I had the sudden thought that Bree had been smart. I wished I knew the best dry-cleaner in the Denver area.
I slid off the bed, wrapped the sheets around myself, and handed Nick my blue fleece blanket—still warm with my body heat.
“Here,” I said. “Dry off. I’ll go find you something to wear.”
He took the blanket and I rushed into my closet, suddenly weirded out by the bare facts of our situation. I had a guy—a guy about my own age—in my room. A hot guy who had sneaked into my room. And I was half-naked.
I ducked behind some long jackets and dresses and fished out the bulging trash bag filled with all my dad’s old stuff. It felt strangely good to grab his thick red flannel shirt and a pair of worn Mountain Khakis. The clothes smelled slightly musty, but I thought they’d fit Nick perfectly.
“Here.” I held them out. He didn’t move.
“They’re guy clothes,” I told him. “Brownie promise.”
>
He took them, smiling quizzically. “Are you a Girl Scout?”
“’Fraid so.”
He thought about it for a second. “Ambassador,” he mumbled.
“Huh?”
“You’re a junior, right?”
“Yes. And I am—an Ambassador. But how do you know what a Girl Scout Ambassador is?”
Nick stretched his arms out. The question seemed to bother him more than I would have thought, but I couldn't help feeling positive.
“This is great, then. It’s a clue! You must know someone. Ambassador is kind of a new rank, and there aren’t that many high school Girl Scouts.” Impulsively, I did a little bounce. “This will be perfect. I can name a bunch of random things and you can tell me if you know about them.”