Panic(34)

His head was spinning. “Lie down,” he said, in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. She did, pressing flat against the ground. He was glad to lie down too. Lifting Nat that small distance had exhausted him. It was as though the smoke was a blanket . . . as though it was covering him, and telling him to sleep. . . .

He was back on the carousel again. But this time the spectators were screaming. And it had started to rain. He wanted to get off . . . the ride was whirling faster and faster . . . lights were spinning overhead . . .

Lights, spinning, voices shouting. Sirens screaming.

Sky.

Air.

Someone—Mom?—saying, “You’re okay, son. You’re going to be okay.”





SATURDAY, JULY 9





heather

WHEN HEATHER WOKE UP, SHE IMMEDIATELY KNEW SHE was in a hospital, which was kind of disappointing. In movies, people were always groggy and confused and asking where they were and what had happened. But there was no mistaking the smell of disinfectant, the clean white sheets, the beep-beep-beep of medical equipment. It was actually kind of pleasant—the sheets were clean and crisp; her mom and Bo weren’t shouting; the air didn’t reek of old booze. She’d slept better than she had in a long time, and for several minutes she kept her eyes closed, breathing deeply.

Then Bishop was speaking, quietly. “Come on, Heather. We know you’re faking. I can tell by the way your eyelid is twitching.”

Heather opened her eyes. Joy surged in her chest. Bishop was sitting in a chair drawn up to the bed, leaning forward, as close as he could get without crawling into the cot with her. Nat was there too, eyes swollen from crying, and she rocketed straight at Heather.

“Heather.” She started sobbing again. “Oh my God, Heather. I was so scared.”

“Hi, Nat.” Heather had to speak through a mouthful of Nat’s hair, which tasted like soap. She must have showered.

“Don’t suffocate her, Nat,” Bishop said. Nat drew back, still sniffling, but she kept a grip on Heather’s hand, as though she were worried Heather might float away. Bishop was smiling, but his face was sheet white and there were dark circles under his eyes. Maybe, Heather thought, he had been sitting by her bed all night, worried she might be dying. The idea pleased her.

Heather didn’t bother asking what had happened. It was obvious. Nat had gotten help, somehow, and Heather must have been carted off to the hospital when she was passed out. So she asked, “Is Dodge okay? Where is he?”

“Gone. He got up a few hours ago and walked out. He’s okay,” Nat said all in a rush. “The doctor said you’d be okay too.”

“You won the challenge,” Bishop said, his face expressionless. Nat shot him a look.

Heather inhaled again. When she did, she felt a sharp pain between her ribs. “Does my mom know?” she asked.

Nat and Bishop exchanged a quick glance.

“She was here,” Bishop said. Heather felt her chest seize again. She was here meant she’d left. Of course. “Lily, too,” he rushed on. “She wanted to stay. She was hysterical—”

“It’s all right,” Heather said. Bishop was still looking at her weirdly, like someone had just forced a handful of Sour Patch Kids into his mouth. It occurred to her that she must look like crap, probably smelled like crap too. She felt her face heat up. Great. Now she’d look like crap warmed over. “What?” she said, trying to sound annoyed without breathing too hard. “What is it?”

“Listen, Heather. Something happened last night, and you—”

The door swung open, and Mrs. Velez came into the room, balancing two cups of coffee and a sandwich filmed in plastic, obviously from the cafeteria. Mr. Velez was right behind her, carrying a duffel bag Heather recognized as belonging to Nat.

“Heather!” Mrs. Velez beamed at her. “You’re awake.”

“I told my parents,” Nat said unnecessarily, under her breath.

“It’s all right,” Heather said again. And secretly, she was pleased that Mr. and Mrs. Velez had come. She was suddenly worried she might cry. Mr. Velez’s hair was sticking straight up, and he had a grass stain on one of the knees of his khakis; Mrs. Velez was wearing one of her pastel cardigans, and both of them were looking at Heather as though she had come back from the dead. Maybe she had. For the first time she realized, really realized, how close she had come. She swallowed rapidly, willing back the urge to cry.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Mrs. Velez set the coffees and sandwich on the counter and sat down on Heather’s bed. She reached out and smoothed back Heather’s hair; Heather imagined, just for a second, that Mrs. Velez was her real mother.

“You know.” Heather tried, and failed, to smile.

“I had my dad bring some stuff,” Nat said. Mr. Velez hitched the duffel bag a little higher, and it occurred to Heather that she had lost her own bag—left it in the Graybill house. It was probably ashes by now. “Magazines. And that fuzzy blanket from my basement.”

The way Nat was talking made it seem as if Heather was actually going to be staying here. “I’m really fine.” She sat up a little higher in bed, as though to prove it. “I can go home.”

“The doctors need to make sure there’s no damage inside,” Mrs. Velez said. “It might be a little while.”