Again, But Better(68)

I shake my head again. “What are you talking about? What is this? I don’t know what this is, Pilot. What the hell are you saying?”

“This!” He gestures around the room. “This creepy replica of the London flat, Shane!”

Why is he yelling at me? My eyes sting. No crying.

“I don’t know what this is! Why the fudge and how on earth would I even go about getting a replica of a flat made? Christ, listen to yourself, you sound insane!”

I’m still on the floor, legs stretched in front of me like a rag doll. Pilot’s expression clouds.

“What do you mean, Atticus?” I ask hesitantly.

“Atticus is here, he’s in ‘my’”—he holds up air quotes—“room.”

How can Atticus be here?

“Did we get drugged?” I ask, my voice is ten pitches higher than normal. “Do you feel drugged?”

Pilot runs a hand down his face. “I … I don’t really feel drugged … You mean at the café?”

“Yes. We were in a café.” I grasp at the words. That happened.

“You only had a few sips of your tea, and I didn’t even drink mine.” His voice raises a few octaves. “Are you serious? You don’t know what’s going on right now?” His wild, panicked eyes search mine.

“I don’t know what’s going on right now!” I didn’t mean to yell, but I’m having trouble staying calm.

My hands tangle up into my hair, smooshing it up and away from my face. I feel dizzy. I fold forward, letting my head hang between my legs.

“Shane?”

I stare hard at the ground. You’re fine, you’re okay. “I’ll be okay in a second. Hold on,” I mumble. A moment later, I feel Pilot’s hand on my back.

“Here, get off the floor and sit on the couch,” he says.

I lift my head to find his hand hovering in front of my face. I grab it. He pulls me off the floor. I drop his hand and fall to the couch. He sits three feet away from me on the other end of it. I’m trying to get a grip on the panic soaring around inside me, but it feels like a losing battle.

I pull my legs up and clutch them to my chest. “Someone changed my clothes.”

His eyes expand as he looks down at his own clothes. “Mine too,” he says, surprised. I watch his throat bob as he swallows his fear. “Maybe we should go talk to Atticus.”

I bob my head okay. He bobs his head back, and we rise from the couch.

“Wait!” I say abruptly before we open the door. “We’re unarmed, maybe we should be armed.”

“Armed?” he says skeptically.

I run over to the utensil drawer near the sink and yank it open.

“Pilot,” I say as I rifle through it and grab two steak knives, “what if someone knocked us out and brought us here?”

I pivot around, gingerly holding the utensils, and shove the drawer closed with my butt. Pain shoots through me. Ow, butt bruise.

“Okay,” he concedes. He carefully takes a knife, holds it down by his side. I grip mine tightly and point it out in front of me.

I creep behind Pilot as he strides down the hall. The hall. It’s just like the hall from London. This is the hall.

“Oh god.” I stare dumbstruck at the two doors at the end of the corridor. This can’t be happening. Pilot moves toward the left door, puts his hand on the knob, and twists.

He frowns. “Shit, I don’t have a key.” He instinctively drops his free hand to his pocket. A second later he pulls out a set of keys. He gapes at them, eyebrows pulled low.

“I don’t know how I got these.”

And then the door in front of him just swings open. Atticus stands there wearing his familiar goofy smile. “Hey, you lose your key?” He catches sight of the keys in Pilot’s hand and laughs. “Apparently not.” His gaze falls to me and he laughs again. “Are you cooking?”

I stare at him, confused. Why would I be cooking?

“What?” I ask.

“You’re holding a knife…”

I gaze down at my hand, remembering. Oh yeah. I drop my knife hand so that it dangles by my side.

“Where are we, Atticus?” Pilot demands.

Atticus’s expression screws up, and he turns to me, as if to share a look of bewilderment, but I just glare angrily. He brings his eyes back to Pilot.

“Uh … London,” he says, not without sass. “What’s with the theatrics?” He smiles expectantly, like he’s waiting for the punch line of a joke.

Pilot and I share a look. Atticus takes this moment to walk back over to his bed where he’s unpacking a suitcase full of clothes. No …

“What do you mean, we’re in London?” I demand.

Atticus turns around holding a folded shirt in his hand. “Uh. London, like the city? London, England.”

“How did you get us here?” Pilot asks in shock.

“What?” He whirls around with a laugh and sets down the item of clothing he’s holding. “We met this morning. I’m pretty sure you both took separate planes of your own volition.”

My head starts to spin again. I feel the knife fall out of my hand and thump mutedly against the carpet.

“Cut the crap, Atticus. Tell us what’s going on; this isn’t funny,” Pilot says. He drops an arm to the doorframe, leaning against it for support. Atticus stands in the center of their room, now with his hands on his hips.