“How was fishing?” I ask.
Dad lights up like a kid. “Caught a ten-pound steelhead. Look!” He pulls out his phone and shows me the picture—he’s a catch-and-release kind of guy so I never actually get to see his catch, just pictures of them. It’s at an awkward angle and I can only see about two-thirds of the fish, but Dad’s thrilled. He launches into the details of the catch. I chew and listen, not that I’m really into fishing but because I like seeing him like this: happy. He hasn’t been fishing much in the past few months, and I’m glad he decided to go yesterday. It seems like the more often he drinks, the less interested he is in doing all the stuff he used to like to do.
Or maybe it’s because he’s less interested in life that he drinks so much.
He flips to the next fish picture—a blurry shot of a swishing tail—and launches into more details of his day.
It isn’t until later when we’re standing side by side at the sink—me washing pans, Dad drying—that he asks, “You okay?”
No. I can’t sleep. I’m having nightmares. And I spend every waking second wondering if—when—I’m going to get pulled again. “Of course I’m okay.”
Mostly honest, but sometimes not.
He nods. “Thought I heard you walking around last night.”
“Upset stomach,” I lie. “Probably the garbage plate I had at Mark’s.”
“You? A garbage plate? Burger, hash browns, grilled cheese, gravy? If that’s true, then you really aren’t okay.” He lays the back of his hand against my forehead as though to check my temperature.
I smile and slap his hand away. “I shared one and a big salad with Carly and Kelley.”
“Meaning you ate the salad and they ate the rest.”
Pretty much, but I don’t bother to admit it. “The salad had grilled chicken. And cheese.”
“Dressing?”
“Actually, yes.” Low-fat raspberry vinaigrette.
He stares at me, saying nothing, his expression solemn. “I love you. You know that.” Not a question.
My breath catches. I know he loves me; it just isn’t something he actually says all that often. “I know, Dad.” You just don’t love yourself, at least not enough to stop drinking before something terrible happens. But there’s no point in saying that because if I do, he’ll just turn around and walk away. No deep convos for Dad, at least not if the deep end is on his side. I smile a little sadly. “I love you more.”
At my reference to our childhood game, he smiles back and I have to look away before I throw my arms around him and babble out all my fears like I used to do when I was five, worried about the monster under the bed.
With a shudder, I remember the way the Drau was sucked in by my weapon: legs, then torso, and finally head. It knew what was happening the whole time it was dying. Its end wasn’t fast and easy.
So who’s the monster now?
A couple of hours later, I give up on homework. I can’t concentrate. My mind keeps going back to the aliens, the lobby, the weapons. Tyrone. Richelle.
Jackson.
I’m so mad at Luka for being stubborn. He doesn’t have to betray any secrets. I could stick to general questions and he could stick to one-word answers. I grab my phone, ready to tell him exactly that, when it hits me.
I don’t need Luka.
He won’t talk to me? Fine.
Richelle Kirkman from Philadelphia just might.
I log on and enter her name in the search engine. Richelle will talk to me. I know she will. Even if there’s some sort of edict against talking to anyone outside what Luka refers to as the game, Richelle isn’t an outsider. She’s as much part of it as I am. And if even the insiders aren’t supposed to discuss it, I’ll keep my questions generic. There must be something she’ll be willing to divulge.
My connection is slow, the little circle spinning and spinning. Come on. Come on.
Nothing. Three minutes’ worth of nothing.
“Dad,” I yell. “Dad, can you reset the modem? The connection’s slow.”
No answer. I run downstairs to Dad’s home office. He’s not there. I can hear him outside, running the mower over our too-long grass. Good, the neighbors were starting to give me pointed looks every time I left the house. I reset the modem. The row of lights flickers back on one by one.
Success. I do a little victory dance and pump my fist in the air.
I tear back up the stairs. I have a plan. A solution. I’ll get the answers I need. I am in control.