The Flight of the Silvers (Silvers #1)(11)

Now she could see the casual mayhem inside. Throngs of impatient shoppers congealed at every checkout stand while cashiers dawdled helplessly. Another blackout. Or perhaps the same blackout. Hannah exhaled with relief when the lights flickered back to life.

Just outside the entrance, a slender teenage girl kept a lazy vigil behind a cloth-covered table. Hannah reeled at her strange blond hair—short on the sides but ridiculously long in the back and front. She reminded Hannah of a Shetland pony.

Both her table and her sleeveless black turtleneck were covered with buttons, each one containing a photo of an adorable dog or cat, plus a bold-faced call to action. Stop Pet Extensions.

Hannah stared at the activist for a good long minute, trying to make sense out of her and her cause. Eventually the girl noticed Hannah. She studied the actress through a curtain of bangs, then took a long swig of bottled milk. It had a picture of a maniacally happy cow on the label. The brand name was Mommy Moo, and the drink was boastfully fortified with something called Casamine-4.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” said Hannah, in a parched rasp.

“You stretched?”

“Huh?”

“I’m asking if you’re okay,” the girl attested. “You look like you’re not.”

A bleak chuckle escaped Hannah’s lips. She felt light-headed and horrendously fragile, as if a stiff breeze could crack her to pieces.

“No, I’m not okay. I can’t even . . . Listen, my name is Hannah and I’d like to ask you something. I know how crazy this’ll sound, but I’m really screwed up right now and I’d appreciate a straight answer. Am I . . .”

She took another shaky glance around the lot, then sucked a jagged breath.

“Is this Canada?”

The question earned her five seconds of stony silence from the girl.

“Are you rubbing me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you making some stupid joke at my expense?”

“No! I’m not! I’m really not, okay? If there’s any joke going on right now, it’s at my expense. I’m lost. I’m scared. I’m sick to my stomach. And I don’t recognize a single thing around me.”

The girl continued to eye her with doubt.

“I’m not ‘rubbing’ you,” Hannah insisted. “I’m not making a joke. Please. Just tell me where I am.”

At long last, the blonde brushed away her bangs. She had radiant green eyes, just like Amanda. Having grown up brown with envy, Hannah found the strength to wonder why the hell anyone would hide eyes that pretty.

“You’re in San Diego,” the girl informed her. “Downtown. Just a few blocks from the harbor.”

Hannah pressed a fist against her forehead, as if struggling to hold her brain in.

“Thank you.”

“You want me to call someone for you? A doctor? A friend?”

“No. I appreciate it, but I think I just need to . . . uh . . .” She felt distracted by all the girl’s weird buttons and stickers. Pet extensions?

“I should just go.”

“Okay. Keep walking.”

Hannah cocked her head in fresh bafflement. Though the girl’s words were dismissive, she’d delivered them with cordial warmth, as if she were merely wishing Hannah a pleasant weekend.

The actress slung her bag over her shoulder and made her wavering escape from the lot. Five minutes after she turned a corner, the other stores began to open. The waxy white barricades popped out of existence one by one, like soap bubbles.

—

Hannah drifted down the quiet avenue, praying to stumble back into some familiar part of the city. Signs informed her that she was on West Earl Boulevard, a street that didn’t exist anywhere in her memory files. The area teemed with glassy office buildings, each one sporting a café or bistro at the ground level. One eatery brandished boastful signs about its “10× booths.”

Her attention was captured by a twelve-foot street advertisement, a morbid image of a sheet-draped corpse on a coroner’s slab. A thin female arm dangled out from under the covers, her dead hand clutching an unlabeled pill bottle. Grim black text flanked the bottom of the picture.

SHE CERTAINLY DIDN’T SEE THAT COMING.

PREDICTIVES: UNTESTED. UNLAWFUL. UNSAFE.

Under the tagline, a call to action urged citizens to contact the American Health Bureau at #99-17-18384.

Hannah stared at the poster for a long and restless minute before forcing herself onward. At the next corner, she mindlessly averted her gaze from the clear glass front of a newspaper box. She was overstocked on calamity at the moment. The last thing she needed was another dose of disruption in the form of a brain-busting headline. “Gelatinous Man Wins Congressional Nod,” or “Tentative Accord Reached Between Humans, Apes.”

A half block later, she suffered another pins-and-needles attack, forcing her to rest on a bus stop bench. She opened her handbag and was soothed by her familiar belongings—her wallet, her makeup, a Trader Joe’s granola bar, a recent issue of Entertainment Weekly. Most cherished of all was her little pink iPod, which looked as dead as her cell phone.

As she idly nibbled her granola bar, a blue-and-white city ambulance came to a halt on the opposite side of the street. The driver, a stocky young man in a royal blue jumpsuit, stepped out of the vehicle and stretched. Hannah wondered what would happen if she went up to him and explained her predicament. He’d probably take her straight to the municipal nuthouse, where overworked clinicians would feed her big words and little tablets until she realized that her whole life up to this point was just a schizoid dream.