Patchwork Paradise(5)

“I know.” He grabbed my hand, squeezed it, then tugged me forward. We half ran toward the car. I’d never figure out why, but I understood something terrible was about to happen. My heart tried to claw its way out of my throat.

“Sam,” I said again, and a dark figure stepped out from behind a van. “Oh no.”

“Your wallet,” the man said. His eyes were wide and his gaze kept darting from me to Sam to the street behind us. It was hard to see his face, but every now and again the dim light caught the sweat on his forehead or the brown of his rotting teeth. “Both of you. Car keys, phones, watches. All of it.”

“Oh God.” I began to tremble, and Samuel took a careful step away from me. The mugger’s frantic eyes followed him, which must have been Sam’s intention, but I didn’t like it one bit.

“Do what he says,” he told me calmly. “It’ll be okay.”

I nodded and tried to keep a hold of myself as I undid the watch on my wrist. It had been a gift from my dad, but in that moment it could’ve been a gift from the king and I wouldn’t have cared.

By the time I managed to take my phone and wallet out of my pockets, I was trembling so hard I fumbled and dropped them. Then it all happened at once.

“Oh God,” I said again, bending to pick them up.

The guy yelled, “Stay where you are!” and Samuel stepped between us.

I heard the guy swear, ripping something from Samuel’s hands. Samuel turned around, his eyes wide.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“Yeah, we can get new wallets.” I tried to laugh, but my eyes were wet and my voice was hoarse. I looked up to see the man running away. “He’s gone. Should I call the police?”

“I think you need to call an ambulance,” Samuel whispered. He was clutching at me, dragging me down with him. I didn’t understand.

“Sam? Sammy? Oh my God. Oh my God.” I tried to ease him down slowly, but he was so heavy we both fell. The gravel bit painfully into my knee, and his head lolled to the side.

“Sam!” I grabbed his face and righted it. He looked at me and mouthed something, but all that came out were bubbles of blood. “No. No no no, Samuel, oh please, God, no.” He was clutching his abdomen and I pried his fingers away. A thick pool of blood darkened his shirt. I made a hoarse noise. Pressing my hands over what must be a stab wound, I looked up and saw a couple walking. “Help me!” I yelled. I fumbled around for either of our phones, but my vision was cloudy with panic and tears, and I couldn’t find them. “Somebody help me!”

When I looked back down at Samuel, his eyes had filmed over.

I screamed as his blood seeped under my fingernails. And because grief is, intrinsically, a selfish emotion, all I felt was my own heart bleeding.





I sat in the hospital, unaware of anything but the loud buzzing noise between my ears and the glaringly bright lights. I had no idea how I’d gotten there. Someone in a police uniform was kneeling in front of me. His mouth was moving, but I heard nothing. Eventually he shook his head and stood. I watched him go toward a nurse. They talked. He pointed at me. She looked over and nodded. Her mouth pinched together in what could’ve been sympathy. I averted my eyes. I didn’t want to see anyone’s pity. That meant acknowledging something was wrong.

Someone rubbed my arm. I looked down at the hand. Wrinkled fingers stroked the fabric of my coat. I knew the fat golden ring on the index finger, but my brain didn’t work. I looked up. It was Sam’s mom. I quickly looked away again. Cleo sat on my other side, sobbing so hard I suddenly understood why the chair I sat in seemed to be moving jerkily. I looked away from her too.

Something cold pressed to my cheek. I startled.

“You have blood on your face.”

They were the first words to penetrate the fog in my mind since Samuel told me to call an ambulance.

“What?”

Where the cop had been, Thomas crouched. His eyes were swollen and red, his cheeks tearstained. There was such enormous pain in his gaze, my heart flinched.

“There’s blood on your face,” he said again. “Here, let me . . .”

He pressed the wet paper towels to my temple. I watched them come away dark with brown flecks. Sam’s blood.

I lurched out of the chair and barely made it to the bathroom in time to throw up into the sink. I didn’t look at myself. I couldn’t look at anything, because everything would bring me closer to acknowledging the truth. I rinsed my mouth and walked out.

“Ollie? The police have to ask you some questions, darling.”

Oh no. I shook my head, not looking at Sam’s mother either. “I want to see him,” I whispered. “Can I see him?”

A nurse stepped into my line of sight. “Yes. You can come with me.”

“Do you want anyone to go with you?” Cleo asked.

I glanced at Sam’s mom, but she was staring into space. I shook my head.

I should’ve felt something, surely. But there was nothing at all as I kept my eyes on the nurse’s white shoes and followed her down the stark hallway. Her soles squeaked with every step. I had no idea where we were going.

She opened a door leading to a small, single-bed hospital room. “Will you be okay?” she asked me.

I looked around the sterile space, the huge window in it, the crisp, clean floor, the table with its retractable leaf, the handrails, and finally the unmoving shape in the lonely bed. He was in a bed. Did that mean he’d still been alive when the ambulance brought him in? I wished I could remember if anyone had said something, but my mind was completely blank. I couldn’t even recall the ambulance ride.