A List of Cages(53)

“I can’t.”

He ignores me the way he always does when I tell him I don’t want to sleep. But this is different. I’m sick. I’m in pain.

My father is asking me something: “How many stars?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know the rules.” His voice is gentle. “How many?”

I look up at the pitch-black sky. “I don’t see any stars.”





HOW LONG? NO light streaming through. Did I miss it? Or is it too soon? How long have I been inside this shell? I’m echoing back and forth through the chambers for eternity. I’m not real.

I’m wet. I’m hungry. He’s not coming back.

It’s dark.

I’m scared.

I’m never getting out.

I scream and claw at the walls of the shell. There’s a bright explosion of pain, a snap of bones, but I keep hitting.

Then I’m falling.

My face slams into something cold. Metal.

My fingers find two holes. I try to push one finger through, but it hits something smooth, hard, and cold. I’ve turned over my shell. I need to get it upright again or I’ll drown. I slam my shoulders against the wall, but it’s too heavy. Fighting against metal and gravity and waves, I’m so tired now.

Deep ragged breaths.

I can hear the ocean inside the shell.




I wake up flailing. I’ve already forgotten whatever the nightmare was about, but I remember the feeling—like suffocating. I hop out of bed, too awake to sleep now. I slip out of the house quietly so my mom doesn’t wake up, get in the van to go to Emerald’s….Then it occurs to me that she’s probably asleep too.

Nothing’s open, so I drive aimlessly till I find myself pulling up in front of Julian’s house. The streetlamp reflects against the two rows of square windows, making them shine like teeth. No lights are on in the house, which makes sense, since it’s after midnight. Russell’s car isn’t in the driveway, but it could be in the garage.

I head to the front door and ring the bell. As it echoes through the house, I get an apprehensive twinge. Russell’s probably going to kick my ass for waking him up. But whatever, I’ve gone this far, and I’m not leaving till he gives me the phone number.

Only no lights come on, and no pissed-off asshole comes to the door. It’s pretty obvious no one’s home, but something is stopping me from getting back in my car.

What I do next is so colossally stupid that I immediately start planning my defense for when the police arrive. I’m off my ADHD meds, I’ll say, and impulsivity is the hallmark of my condition. It’s not my fault I kicked in my friend’s window.

When no home invasion alarm sounds, I slide my hand through the broken glass, trying not to cut myself, and turn the locks. I slide the window up and slither in, making a lot of noise when I fall inside. I’m not doing this whole breaking-and-entering thing properly, I know that.

I scramble to my feet, ready for Russell to burst into the room and scream at me for being in his house. Or maybe he’ll think I’m a freakin burglar and charge in with a gun. I freeze.

The house stays totally silent.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the gross, stale odor of what has to be Julian’s room and flip on the light. There’s a suitcase against the wall.

“Julian?” I yell, even though if anyone was home they would’ve heard my fantastic entrance. I stride past his dresser and trunk into his bathroom, out into the living room, then back into the bedroom. I lift the suitcase—heavy, still packed.

I start pacing again. There’s nothing here, but something’s wrong—I know it. I pull out drawers, looking for something, but I don’t know what. I kneel down to open the trunk.

It’s lying on its side, so I heft it upright, grunting. It’s a lot heavier than I expected. For a second I just look at it, puzzled by the huge padlock and round holes drilled into the side. Then an idea forms…an idea so terrible, my hearts shoots up into my head and starts pounding, the noise replacing all thoughts.

I tug on the lock, but it won’t give. A silver glint catches my eye. A key on top of the dresser. I grab it. My fingers fumble as I slide it into the heavy lock. It falls open, and I lift the lid.





MY EARS RING like a sonic blast just split the air. All frequencies interrupted, everything goes white. I’m deaf. I’m blind. My pulse has gone so slow and cold, I can’t move.

Julian is inside the trunk.

His body’s contorted into an impossible position. There are shiny red welts and purpling bruises up and down his arms and back. Blood is caked under his nose and mouth. Every rib in his back is visible. His shoulder blades are sticking out, sharp like wings.

Inside the trunk, the stale sick odor of the room is stronger—a combination of sweat and blood and urine. He doesn’t move, not even a little flicker when the light falls over him. There’s no sign that he’s breathing.

Then, under the sharp shoulders there’s a movement so small, I don’t know if I just imagined it. Then a sound, a tiny rasp.

He opens his eyes.

Relief hits me so hard, I feel weak. He’s alive, but he doesn’t seem to see me. He blinks, tearing up like he’s looking into the sun.

He makes a lurching move to rise, but he can’t. I try to lift him, but he cringes away, folding himself back to the bottom. The terrifying thought suddenly strikes—Russell. He did this, and he could come back any second. I reach into my pocket for my phone and then remember—shit—it’s still on my bedside table sitting in a bowl of rice.