This Is Where the World Ends(6)

I reply to the ceiling. It is almost white, almost smooth, almost more interesting than the video game Dewey has been playing on repeat because he beat all the levels two days ago. “So answer the goddamn question.”

He stares at me. I don’t think Dewey has ever really looked at me before. “Usually you just ask where she is.”

Where. Where is Janie Vivian. The world tilts; I might fall off the bed. I’ve stopped puking, but I might start again. I might. “She’s gone, isn’t she?”

Dewey doesn’t say anything.

“So what happened? Where’d she go?”

For a moment it seems like he might tell me the truth; I look at him and he looks at me. His eyes are almost black. Then he looks away and says, “She went away.”

“But where?”

“She—she’s doing a volunteer trip. In Nepal.”

I stare at him. “What?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“But why? Why Nepal?”

He shrugs. “She just couldn’t be in Waldo anymore, I guess.”

“But why didn’t she stay and tell me?” The pain is growing. The pain is growing larger.

Dewey meets my eyes again. His eyes are almost black, but not quite. But no, Dewey’s eyes are blue. They’ve always been blue.

But for a moment I thought they were black, the pupils so big that they eclipsed the iris.

The world is nearly sideways.

Dewey presses play again.

The doctor comes later to ask if I’m ready to go.

“Where?” I ask him.

He’s balding; his chest hair puffs out from the top of his coat. I don’t remember his name yet. He always keeps one hand in his pocket and never stops clicking his pen.

“Home, Micah,” he says. His smile is wide and false. “You get to go home.”

He checks my head and asks me about my new glasses. I remember that these glasses are new, but not what happened to the old ones. He tells me that I’m doing just fine, and leaves.

Dewey watches the door close. “He’s told you that every time.”

“Told me what?”

He sighs. “That you’re leaving tomorrow, dumbass.”

“Oh,” I say, and try to remember that. “Okay. But I don’t remember how many times he’s come.”

Dewey snorts and goes back to Metatron. “That’s what he said.”

On Sunday, Dewey packs up the Xbox.

On Sunday, I am finally allowed to wear normal clothes again. My dad brought them last night, but I was asleep, or I forgot he was here.

On Sunday, the police come.

There are two of them. One is fat and one is less fat. They introduce themselves, but they only do it once, and I forget their names as soon as they say them.

One sits and one stands. They ask Dewey to leave, and he doesn’t. His fingers twitch for a cigarette and he remains sitting, so one of the police officers has to stand. He glares at them and asks them why the hell they’re here.

“We’ve talked to everyone from the fire,” says the less fat one, who is sitting. “It’s just procedure, nothing to worry about.”

“He’s completely fu—I mean, he’s messed up in the head,” Dewey says. His hand keeps going to his pocket for a cigarette and coming back empty. “You can’t talk to him like this. There’s no way this is okay.”

“The doctors cleared him,” says the fatter one. His voice is low and firm. “It’s just a few standard questions, Jonathan.”

“That’s not my name,” Dewey snaps, though it is.

“Dewey, just go,” I say. They’re hurting my head.

He glares at me. “Shut up, Micah. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know what I’m saying,” I say, slowly, so it’s not a lie. “I want you to go.”

He glares at me for another second, and then stalks out of the room. He has his phone in his hand and he’s dialing. I think I hear him say my dad’s name before he slams the door behind him.

There’s a beat of silence. Then the fatter one says, “How are you feeling, Micah?”

“Not great.”

That’s probably the best answer I give them. They keep asking questions. If I want water. What I knew about the quarry. Why I was there so often. If I always went with Janie. If she was ever sad. If she ever cried. How well I knew her.

“Better than anyone,” I tell them.

The less fat one pulls out a notepad. “Is that right, son?”

He doesn’t believe me.

“Better than anyone,” I repeat.

The fatter one watches me. “Are you sure about that, Micah? We’ve talked to just about the entire school, and I don’t think anyone would back you up on that.”

“Better than anyone.”

“They all say that no one ever saw the two of you interact. Ever.”

That’s true. I remember that. We decided that in middle school. Before that, maybe. I can’t really remember, but not because of my head injury. It’s just been a long time.

I have been trying to figure it all out while staring at the ceiling, but it’s hard because I’m still forgetting. I forget that my dad is working three shifts now to pay for the hospital bills and that’s why he’s never here. I forget that I am eighteen now. I forget that it’s November. I keep trying and trying to remember, but all I can think of is Janie closing her door with her fingertips and the wind from the window and how that was really it.