After

  Jenevra makes a sound, a sharp laugh. “Look, it’s Karma. Okay? Believe me—this isn’t her first. She probably just had a fight with her dad or something. He’s some big CEO dickhead with, like, this parade of bitchy trophy wives. Karma was caught with drugs the other day, you know. He probably just came to give her crap. Stuff like this happens all the time during visiting hours.”

  “You two, move it!” the spiky-haired staff yells at Devon and Jenevra. “This ain’t no promenade, do-si-do square dance, ladies! Get in your cells. When you hear the lock pop, you can come out. Until then, stay quiet.”

  “Well, see ya,” Jenevra says. She drops Devon’s hand, moves to her cell. Devon finds her own cell, D-12. Pulls open the door, steps inside.

  The door locks—clank—behind her.

  She slumps back against it, stares down at the floor for a long time.

  Her heart won’t stop hammering.

  She closes her eyes.

  Rushing feet, doors slamming. Indistinct voices. The sound of panic.

  Devon opens her eyes. Looks around. Cool cement floor under her numb butt. Her back’s to the door, her neck stiff. She rubs at her eyes. She must have been sleeping.

  The commotion outside continues. Devon remembers now—Karma had freaked out earlier. They’d all been locked down because of it. The basketball game out in the courtyard, it ended.

  The pod had been quiet for a long time after that.

  Devon hears the static of a radio—the police kind.

  She pushes off the floor. Her left foot is asleep. She stomps it, the sharp tingling making her wince. Turns to look out her cell door window.

  The movement she’d heard out in the common area is from several staff rushing around. And two paramedics with a stretcher between them. An orange-jumpsuited girl is strapped down on the stretcher, an IV bag swinging from a metal hook over her head. When the paramedics veer the stretcher toward the entryway, they pass Devon’s door, and Devon sees who the girl is.

  Karma.

  Her face is pale, and her eyes are closed, unnaturally serene. Her hair is wild, flattened against the thin pillow. There’s blood on the orange jumpsuit, but most prominent is the blood soaked into the white thermal undershirt Karma always wears underneath, its sleeves especially. Devon sees blood smears across the white linen of the stretcher.

  The source of all the blood—Karma’s arms.

  Devon feels cold inside. The spork! Karma had used it.

  “If you can bleed—see it, feel it—then you know you’re alive.”

  The white thermal undershirt, stained red.

  “I’m alive. Are you, Devil?”

  Devon stumbles backward, away from her window. Feels the bile rise, burn in her throat. She should’ve told the staff. Why didn’t she tell?

  The stretcher. The IV bag swinging, a liquid-filled pendulum. The black straps securing Karma to the stretcher.

  The black straps.

  The black straps, they held Devon down once.

  Devon had been on a stretcher, too.

  The dark-eyed man. The bright lights of the emergency room.

  The doctor with the rectangular glasses, layers of shirts under a white lab coat.

  “I can see that you’ve lost a lot of blood . . . in danger of possibly bleeding to death.”

  Devon, too, had bled.

  “If you can bleed . . . you’re alive.”

  Devon shakes her head, tries to clear it, but the images come crashing now, fast and unstoppable.

  Blood. Blood everywhere.

  A piercing scream. Devon covers her ears with her hands.

  She sits up. Looks down, between her legs.

  A pulsing purple cord, tough and slick. Connecting them—Devon and IT. Clumsy fingers—Devon’s hand—grasping. Somehow finding the clippers in the bathroom drawer. The toenail clippers. Trembling fingers, difficult to manipulate. The clippers, slippery, blood-smeared, clatter on the linoleum. Again. And again. The constant screaming. The pulsing cord, finally shredded and frayed. Spurting, an unchecked garden hose. Blood everywhere.

  But Devon is free. Free from IT. Free and panting and shaking all over. Watching the miniature writhing limbs, the tiny opened mouth. The blood-spattered face.

  “If you can bleed—see it, feel it . . .”

  That ear-shattering scream, grating and unrelenting. Shut up! Make it stop! Devon frantic, spots the sink. Like a cradle, just to hold IT, contain IT for a moment. Until the black bag, billowing open and wide, finally swallows the scream.

  Devon grabs her head, squeezes her temples with her palms. Hard. Harder. Her fingers clutch at her hair. But the image is still there: IT was alive—breathing and bleeding and screaming. And she—Devon—had scooped it all into a black trash bag and tied that bag tight.

  POP! The lock on her cell door.

  Devon starts, opens her eyes.

  The door is ajar. The spiky-haired staff is standing there in the opening. Flushed and tense.

  Devon is breathless. Her body dripping, sweat running down.

  The staff gives Devon a quizzical look. “Your attorney is here to see you. In the conference room. Great timing, but what can you do?” She pauses, glances around the cell. “Is everything okay in here?”

  Devon clears her throat, releases her hair, smoothes it down. “What . . . what happened to Karma? I, uh”—Devon takes a breath, trying to calm herself—“saw her from my window. The stretcher . . .”

  The staff turns to look over her shoulder momentarily, as if imagining Devon’s perspective, what she might have seen. She faces Devon again. “Just an incident in which Karma made the unfortunate choice to hurt herself. Now, if you please, cross the common area to the conference—”

  “But she was bleeding.” Devon brings a thumb up to her mouth, chews the nail. “A lot.”

  The staff nods. “You’re right, she was. But your attorney is waiting for you, and I have—”

  “Did she cut herself?”

  The staff sighs with exasperation.

  “She did, didn’t she?”

  “Stop.” The staff raises her hand firmly. “Right now.” She takes a breath. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the incident with you at this time. But later this afternoon, during our Saturday Pod Meeting, we’ll discuss the incident at length with everyone. All right? But right now, you are required in the conference room.” The staff pulls the door wide, steps aside, inviting Devon to pass.

  Devon takes in a shaky breath, wipes her damp forehead on her sleeve. The horrific picture in her mind is still there, that last glimpse. The blood-speckled mass slumped inside the sink’s basin. The tiny scrinched face, the struggling little fists. IT was alive. And still she held that bag firmly between her two hands, closed her eyes, and done it.

  Devon feels her stomach lurch. She just can’t see Dom right now. Devon looks at the staff. “Um, can you please tell her, my attorney, that I . . . I’m, uh, not feeling very good right now. I think I need to lie down—” She turns for her bed.

  “No.” The staff yanks Devon back by the arm. “No. One foot in front of the other. Now.”

  The staff’s mouth is a stern straight line. Devon has no other choice. She thinks of Karma, throwing herself against the walls, shrieking profanities and sobbing. It would be effective. But no, Devon would never—could never—lose control of herself like that. She obediently steps out into the pod.

  She slowly crosses the common area to the conference room.

  When she reaches the door, she turns to look back over her shoulder.

  The staff is watching her, her arms crossing her chest.

  Devon grasps the handle and pushes down.

  chapter sixteen

  “Great timing, huh?”

  Dom is sitting at the table, scribbling away on her legal pad. Today she’s wearing black cycling shorts and a pink cycling jersey with a large yellow flower on the front and her hair in a loose ponytail. Her bike helmet, with black cycling gloves and sunglasses shoved inside of i
t, is tossed behind her stool in the far corner of the room.

  Finally Dom looks up, pen in midstroke. “No response?”

  Devon drags over to the stool opposite Dom, sits down. “Yeah, with all the stuff”—she waves a hand toward the door behind her—“that was going on just now . . . ” Her voice trails off.

  “It was kind of crazy out there.”

  Devon looks down at her hands. “I really don’t want to be here right now, Dom. So, yeah. You’re timing really isn’t the greatest.”

  “Sorry to screw up your day,” Dom says, her tone tinged with sarcasm. “But thanks for your honesty.”

  Devon jumps up. She’s way too jittery, her mind too jumbled; planting herself on that stool isn’t going to work right now. She stands awkwardly behind it. “So, you rode your bike here?”

  “Doing my part for the environment, yes.”

  Devon looks over her shoulder toward the door behind her, then back to Dom. “Cool. You do that a lot? Ride your bike places?”

  Dom sets her pen down, nice and centered, on her yellow legal pad. “I do, but I’m not here to discuss my preferred mode of transportation with you. Okay? I hate to constantly bring this up, but we have a hearing coming up in three days. That’s why I’m here yet again. We have some new developments we need to cover—”

  “That girl.” Devon looks back at the door again. “Do you . . . know her?”

  Dom looks confused for a moment. Then, “Oh, the girl on the stretcher? The one who was on her way out when I was coming in?”

  Devon nods. She brings her thumb up to her mouth, gnaws.

  “No.”

  Devon starts pacing. “Well, she took the spork from my tray at dinner last night and broke the end off of it. I think she used it to cut herself.”

  Dom watches Devon, following her back and forth with those steady eyes.

  “She was freaking out all over the place this morning. So, the staff slammed her to the ground and made all of us lockdown in our cells. Then a little later, an ambulance came. I saw them take her away on that stretcher. I was looking out my window. She had blood all over her.”

  Dom nods. “I’m sure seeing that was very upsetting for you.”

  Devon stops pacing, throws her arms out. “Did you even hear what I said, Dom? She used my spork, the part she broke off of it, to cut herself! I’m sure that’s why she was bleeding so much. She must have done it in her cell during Lockdown. She—her name’s Karma—she showed me her arms the other day. She had tons of scars from cutting herself.” Devon backs into the corner of the room nearest the door, slides down to the floor. “I should’ve told the staff about the spork. I should’ve said something!”

  “So, why didn’t you?”

  Devon shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want . . . I don’t know.”

  Dom leans forward. “Are you friends with this Karma girl?”

  Devon friends with Karma? Devon shakes her head. “No. No way. We talk sometimes. I guess. Mostly she just tries to get in my head.”

  “I see.” Dom sits back again. “Well, Devon, one thing you have to learn? You can’t control other people. Yeah, maybe you should’ve told the staff. But Karma makes her own choices. Just like you. Just like me.” She pauses a moment, leans over sideways around the table to get a better view of Devon. “So, this is what’s bothering you then? Because you seem very agitated today. More so than usual.”

  Devon draws her legs toward herself, rests her chin on her knees. Shrugs again.

  “It’s not your fault, Devon. Whatever Karma did, she did to herself.” Dom stands, walks over to the stool Devon had only briefly occupied, sits on it herself so she’s closer to Devon, can see her clearly.

  Devon watches Dom. She’s wearing those little cycling shoes, the kind that clip into the pedals. They make a click-clack sound against the cement floor as she moves.

  “I don’t know,” Devon finally says. “When I saw Karma on the stretcher, I just—” She hugs her legs tighter to herself. “I just started, you know, remembering . . . stuff.”

  Dom sits up straight. “Like what?”

  A flash of memory. The dark-eyed man, looking down at her. The concern on his face. The bright lights of the emergency room, the rocking movement of the stretcher rolling across the floor. Devon’s slow realization of why she was there, the panic rising inside of her.

  “When I was on a stretcher,” Devon says. “At the hospital.” And the blood in the bathroom. The blood . . . and IT. Devon squeezes her eyes shut.

  But she can feel a tugging in her mind. Questions inching forward, questions about IT.

  Should she ask them—Where is IT now? How is IT?—because Dom, she might know.

  Devon opens her mouth. “I . . . I was just . . .” She swallows, then lowers her head. She can’t do it. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Dom and Devon stay like that for some time—Dom watching Devon hug herself—both saying nothing.

  Finally, Dom takes a deep breath. “Well, Devon, I can’t up-load your brain into mine. You know you’re going to have to share these things with me—everything, not just the things you feel like sharing—hard as that’s going to be. But right now, we need to talk specifically about Tuesday.” She turns from Devon, picks up her pen and legal pad, leafs through it. “So. I met your soccer coach at Stadium yesterday. Mr. Dougherty—”

  Devon’s head shoots up. A jolt in her gut. “Coach Mark?”

  Dom turns around, studies Devon for a moment. “Yes. I had a good conversation with him. Talked to him for about an hour or so.”

  An hour? A lot of information can be discussed in an hour. Devon feels her throat constrict. Whispers, “What did he say?”

  “Well, he thinks you are a very talented soccer player. One of the most talented he’s ever had the privilege to coach.” Dom checks her legal pad. “His words exactly.”

  Devon tries to force down the lump that’s swelling in her throat. “Does he know about . . . about . . . you know. What happened?”

  “Of course.” Dom hesitates a moment, then, “Everyone does, Devon. I told you that before.”

  Devon drops her head back down on her knees.

  “He said he’s known you for a long time.”

  Devon nods. “Ever since I went competitive. I’ve played for him since I was eleven.”

  “So, in addition to being your high school coach, he’s also been your club coach?”

  Devon nods again.

  “And that’s, uh”—Dom glances at her legal pad—“for the Washington Premier Football Club? ‘Football’ meaning ‘soccer,’ right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dom doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “A couple of things came up while we were talking, things I’d like—no need—to explore with you.” Her voice turns stern suddenly. “And I want you to be one hundred percent open and honest with me about it. No playing dodgeball. Got it?” She looks back at her legal pad. “He said that you had gotten injured, and that the injury kept you out of soccer for most of the winter training and all of your spring club season thus far.” Her voice takes on an edge. “This was news to me, of course.”

  Devon doesn’t say anything. She places her hands flat on the floor, pushing against it.

  “From about mid-January on is what he said. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You guess? Look, either this statement is right, or the statement is wrong. We’re talking solid facts here. So, which is it?”

  It happened about a week after winter break, Devon remembers. The drizzle was a little heavier that afternoon than the typical Tacoma winter day. Had been for days and days. The mist a thick spit, almost like it had some snow in it, coming down at a slant. The ground in front of the goal a slick, muddy mess. But they practiced anyway. In the Northwest, if you cancel practice for rain, you’d be canceling it almost every day. “We love the rain!” Coach Mark loved to yell on such days. “We love the mud! Love it more than your opponent ha
tes it!”

  “Yes.” Devon takes a breath. “It’s right.”

  “Really?” Dom’s eyes narrow. “Funny how I didn’t find any record of this injury anywhere in your medical files, Devon. So, why don’t you just tell me about it now.”

  Devon shrugs, kicks off her rubber slides. Rakes the cement floor with her toes. She feels the rough bumps through her socks.

  The memory is right there. She’s with her club team, practicing at her club’s field complex off River Road. The girls are preparing for a preseason showcase tournament in Southern California, only a few weeks away. This practice, Coach Mark is putting them through a simple crossing and finishing drill, one they’ve done countless times. The forward at the top of the box passes the ball to the midfielder who’s making a run along the inside of the sideline toward the field’s right-hand corner. She takes a touch, then crosses it back to the center of the goal box. The forward, running onto it, simply one-touches it into the net—that is, if the ball can get past Devon in the goal.

  This particular time Kait, the team’s top forward and, until recently, Devon’s best friend, is running onto the cross that’s coming from her right, Devon’s left. It wasn’t a great ball from Madi on the outside, Devon remembers thinking—not to feet and coming to a bounce just behind Kait at the six. But Kait handles the ball fine anyway, popping it up and half-volleying it when it’s on its way down, and the ball blasts toward the goal’s right corner, to Devon’s left. Devon dives, arms outstretched, hands reaching for the ball, her body propelling parallel with the ground.

  The ball’s coming too fast, too wide. She does what she can now to tip the ball out and around the post, but at the last instant, the ball makes an unexpected curve. Devon’s bottom hand, her left one, takes the full impact of the shot, forcing her arm back. She hits the ground; her left shoulder feels a violent wrenching there. She wants to get up for the second save, but the mud is too slick and she’s sliding across the ground. Kait, she’s still coming at a full sprint and crashing the goal. Devon rolls slightly onto her back, tries to slow herself. She hears the swoosh of the net behind her as the ball hits it. Gave up a goal. Her head, the back of it, slams into the post.