Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(122)

I pull Owen’s gloves on, my fingers barely making it halfway down the finger slots, and I grip the screwdriver in my right hand. My grandfather holds a flashlight up and begins walking me through the way my car works.

“The chain has to loop through these gears, but it’s tricky, because those gears are bigger than the ones from Owen’s bike, so we have to somehow make his parts work with the car parts, and all of those things need to turn the front tires when you pedal. Make sense?” My grandpa’s hair tufts down in his eyes, and he reaches up, smoothing it back and pulling his glasses from his face, wiping away the smudges on his shirt before putting them back on.

“I think…I think I got it,” I say, letting my eyes run through the process, what my grandfather said, over and over.

Owen moves to a chair, pulling up a water bottle and guzzling down half of it before handing the rest to our grandpa. I hear them whispering in the background, something about how they’ll give me five minutes to play, then step back in and finish, but eventually their voices fade away, and all I hear is my own voice in my head.

My eyes lock in on individual parts, on grooves and patterns, and suddenly everything becomes clear. “I need both chains,” I say.

My grandpa laughs and continues to talk with Owen.

“No, Grandpa. The old chain. I need it,” I say, my voice serious. Owen stands up and moves over next to me, kneeling down and following the line of my sight, staring at the same gears and parts I am.

“He’s right,” he whispers, snapping to my grandpa to bring over the chain. Our grandpa does, and Owen hands it to me. I start snapping and unsnapping gears, blending both sizes into one, asking Owen for help when I’m not strong enough. My hands can’t work fast enough, and it’s like my mind is already riding the pedal car down the hill while my hands are still busy screwing and clipping metal pieces.

Within the hour, the three of us are rolling my new car down the driveway, already dusted with a fresh layer of snow. I don’t care, though, because I deserve a test drive.

“How did you do that?” Owen says as he buckles the helmet to my head. It’s an old motorcycle helmet that we bought from a garage sale, so one of Owen’s shirts is stuffed inside to make it fit.

“I don’t know. I just…I could see it. Is that…am I…weird?” I ask.

Owen presses on my head, making sure the helmet is snug enough.

“Yes,” he grins. “You’re very weird. But you might also be a genius. Now go kick some ass down that hill and don’t crash your present.”

The wind hits my face with Owen’s push, and soon I’m soaring down the roadway, pulling on levers and leaning to veer from the right to the left. The road is empty. In fact, there aren’t any houses near me anymore. I look up, and the sky is clear, and the sun is bright. When I look back, my house is gone, and so are Owen and my grandpa.

I’m going so fast, though, I can’t stop. I keep pulling on the brake, but nothing is working. I didn’t look at the brakes—I should have checked them!

“Andrew…Andrew, stop!”

I hear Owen. I can hear him, but he sounds different.

“Stop fighting, Andrew. Stop fighting!”

I’m not fighting. Why does he think I’m fighting? I’m scared. I’m lying down and the roadway is bumpy. I can’t stop. But I’m not fighting.

“Andrew!”

I see him.

A dream.

Where am I?

My body. My arms. My head, legs, chest.

Owen is holding my right arm down against a bed, and my eyes are fighting to stay open long enough to see him. I see him. He’s older. I’m older!

The fight. I didn’t fight. I didn’t fight! That’s what this is. They think I was fighting, but I wasn’t. I left, and then there was a crash. And Nick. The devil was there, and—

He shot me.

“I need Emma,” I try to say, but when I hear my words, they’re mumbles, nonsensical—something is stopping them, choking me. I try to speak again, but it’s impossible, and it makes me start to cry in frustration. Owen’s hands are on me again, and I flail just wanting to yell, to scream. He needs to understand me.

“Andrew. Stop fighting me,” Owen says, his head close to mine.

Stop fighting.

Yes, that’s it. I breathe deep, everything hurts, the sensation of wires and tubes intubating me and poking me everywhere, but I keep my arms still. I will my legs to lay still. And soon my eyes focus—I see Owen. He’s smiling, and he’s talking to doctors, my mom’s voice coming from somewhere behind me.

I jerk with my arms, wanting to see, but so many people are over me now. My eyes find Owen, and grow wide. A man with glasses and a white coat is hovering over me, and my throat burns as I try to speak. He’s telling me to stop, and I finally feel it—the tube in my throat.

I hold Owen in my sight while the man removes the tube, and everything hurts. The doctor is telling me not to speak yet, but I ignore him.

“You flew here from Germany,” I say, my voice gravely and my throat raw. Owen laughs, sliding his hand down my arm to my hand, holding it like he did when I was a kid.

“Yeah, you shit head. I flew here from Germany,” he says, running his sleeve over his eyes to blot away tears.

“Where…is…is Emma here?” I ask, my voice still barely audible.