The Flight of the Silvers (Silvers #1)(12)

A tinny voice beckoned the paramedic from his belt radio. He rushed back to his seat and started up the ambulance. The rooftop lights spun bright and red. The motor sounded more like a hair dryer to Hannah than a gas engine.

With a steamy hiss, the vehicle floated to second-story altitude. The wheels folded inward until the hubcaps faced the pavement. The engine emitted a final roar, and then the ambulance shot down West Earl Boulevard like a cruise missile. Leaves and litter fluttered in its wake.

Hannah sat frozen in dead-faced torpor. A piece of granola fell out of her hanging mouth.

Inside her head, a stadium full of little Hannahs erupted in riot. They screamed, they sobbed, they pounded the floor. Only one managed to stay in her seat. Amidst all the chaos, she looked up at the sky and calmly suggested that she find a quiet place to gather her wits.

Hannah collected her belongings with shaky hands, then continued in the direction she believed to be west. Soon her sage little helper offered new advice. The next time you see a newspaper stand, try to stop and look. You don’t have to read the headline, sweetie. But you may want to check the date.

—

The marina was a short hop away, just as the pony-haired girl had said. Hannah had to walk two more blocks before she caught the blue water of the bay between buildings.

Soon she found her nesting spot: a long granite bench at the base of the pier. The view was remarkably similar to the one she remembered from her coveted reality, her terra sana. Beyond all the docks and bobbing white yachts lay the long green shore of Coronado. The sky was blue, the air was warm, and nothing soared through the sky but seagulls.

The actress folded her legs in a calming lotus pose while she drank in passing strangers—three joggers, two lovers, one mother. Hannah did a double take at the woman’s baby stroller, which was nothing but handlebar and chassis. Despite its missing parts, the carriage floated steadily along the walkway, as if rolling on invisible wheels. That’s not right, Hannah’s rational self insisted. That is a crazy, sci-fi, future-world object, which makes no sense because this is not the future. A newspaper and a digital bank sign had both confirmed the accuracy of Hannah’s inner calendar. It was the same year, same month, same crazy Saturday as the one she woke up in.

A gangly young man entered Hannah’s field of vision. From his wavy brown hair, his Dustin Hoffman proboscis, and the unsure way he carried himself, she reflexively filed him under Nerd, Jewish. He wore an untucked black button-down over jeans and carried a large spiral-bound book. Unlike the other amblers on the concrete strand, he shined his anxious stare in all directions. Soon it found Hannah and stayed there. She was close enough to see that he was focusing on her middle bits. Scowling, she crossed her arms over her chest. Go away, go away, go away.

Mercifully, he went away. Hannah returned to her thoughts.

Of all the dark and troubling aspects of the morning, the part she wanted to revisit the least involved the white-haired man who’d wrapped a bracelet around one wrist and a bruise around the other. Hannah knew it was crucial to revisit all the things he’d said, since he was the only one who seemed to know what was going on.

Tragically, the audio portion of her memory had been scrambled by trauma. His words hung in fragments, like poetry magnets. Keep your head. Keep your head. This is the end. For them, not for you. [Something something] plans. [Something something] strings. Help will come.

What help?

The skinny man with the notebook came back into view, once again eyeing Hannah from a short distance. His awkward attention bounced between her face and her torso.

Hannah glared, she glowered, she gloomed in his direction, until she was made of nothing but red lights and stop signs. She broadcast her dismissal so strongly that he took a clumsy step back.

As he departed, Hannah could see that his notebook was actually a drawing pad. For a moment, she was afraid she’d misjudged him. Maybe he only wanted to sketch her, not screw her. Who cared? She had bigger concerns.

You’ll be joined with your sister soon enough.

That was it. Amanda. The white-haired man said that Amanda would be here, wherever “here” was. The thought made Hannah cautiously euphoric. Her sister was one of the most demanding and sanctimonious people Hannah had ever known, but she was also one of the sharpest. She could steam press this quandary into something a little more wearable.

But was Amanda really here? Did she pop up in an egg of light somewhere in Chula Vista? Or was it all just some—

“Excuse me . . .”

Hannah gasped and jumped in her seat. As soon as she saw the wavy-haired artist looming at the edge of her bench, her face flushed hot and red.

“Holy shit. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No, no, no, no. You can’t be this dense.”

The artist tilted his head like a puzzled dog. “Uh, apparently so, because I’m not sure—”

“Do I look like I want to be bothered right now? Or sketched? Did you think I’d enjoy having some creepy guy stare at my breasts right now?”

“Wait, what?”

She pressed her palms together in a desperate plea. “I’m really sorry. I’m usually much nicer about it, but I’m on the verge of a complete meltdown and I need to be alone. So if you have even an ounce of goodness in you, I’m asking you to please, please, please just go away and don’t come back. We have nothing to talk about.”