The lights flicker like someone flipped a switch, except we’re outside and there’s no switch to flip. Everything goes dark. Then light again. The truck’s right in front of me, the rusted chrome bumper stained red, like finger paint or smears of cherry juice.
I turn my head to the opposite side and see Luka, his body twisted and broken, a puddle of blood forming beneath him on the road. His eyes are open. They’re dark blue, bright and clear as an arctic lake. Like mine. I never noticed that before; I thought his eyes were brown. His lips move. I can’t hear, but I think he’s saying, “Okay.”
He’s wrong. This definitely is not okay.
I look down and feel a sort of distant horror as I see a body that is mine but not mine. My limbs are bent at odd angles. Shards of bone poke out through my skin. When I try to move, I realize that I feel no pain because I feel nothing. Nothing at all. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t move anything but my head.
I’m broken, like Luka. Broken and bloody.
The thought feels hazy, as though it ought to mean more to me than it does.
I smell cotton candy and cookies. I smell metal and raw steak.
Then I hear it again. The screaming. But it’s far away, growing fainter. It fades until I hear only the sound of my own heartbeat, growing ever slower. Slower.
Slower.
Stay still. Let it pass, the boy says in my head.
Sounds like a plan.
I wait for the next heartbeat, but it doesn’t come.
CHAPTER TWO
I OPEN MY EYES TO SEE THE BLURRED OUTLINES OF LEAVES and branches and a sky so blue it hurts. As the world tilts and drops, I curl my fingers into the long grass and hang on. The world’s still spinning, but at least if I hold on, I won’t fall off.
The grass . . . it feels wrong, but I can’t say why. Confusion rides me as I try to sit up.
“Wait. Let it pass.” A boy’s voice. Cool. Authoritative.
Familiar?
I feel like I should recognize it. I think there are all sorts of things I ought to know—would know—if the knowledge would just stop dancing away from me. But I can’t quite grab hold of it. The thoughts drift away as my vision clicks into sharp focus.
The colors here are too bright. Too blue. Too green. They burn my eyes, straight through to my brain, a deep, agonizing pain. I close my eyes against the glare.
“Just lie still.”
Definitely sounds like a plan. The ground feels like it’s going to fall away, and my head feels like it’s about to explode. Carly gets migraines. I’ve never had one before, but I wonder now if they feel like this. If so, I need to be a lot more sympathetic to her in the future.
Carly. My best friend. I remember her . . . but I can’t remember where I am or how I got here.
Fear uncoils in my gut. I know from experience that fear can easily tip down the slippery slope to full-on panic.
Eyes closed, I concentrate on visualizing a sandy beach and slowing my breathing—in through my nose, hold, out through my mouth—the way Dr. Andrews, my grief counselor, taught me. I’ve done this often enough to know it works. I’ve used it to numb the panic and sorrow for the past two years. Problem is, I’ve also succeeded in dulling pretty much every other emotion. There’s always a price.
“. . . scores . . . ,” a girl says, her voice tinny and distant.
“Nice . . . multi-hit bonus . . . ,” a boy says a few seconds later. Neither voice is familiar. Their words fade in and out.
I want to open my eyes and see who’s talking, but my lids are heavy. I feel like I’m being sucked into a murky lake, hearing the words through water. I lose track of their conversation, then the girl says, “. . . didn’t make it back . . .”
“. . . selfish jerk . . . ,” the boy answers. “Put all of us at risk so many times. Hanging back and stealing the hit points . . . all he cared about was himself and getting out. . . .”
“Doesn’t mean he deserved to . . .”
“He put you at risk. As far as I’m concerned, that means he deserved . . .”
The girl’s voice changes, becomes softer. “. . . Ty . . .”
The conversation fades until all I can hear is my own heartbeat. I focus on that, only that. But there’s something about my heartbeat, something I should know. My thoughts are sludgy. I try to sift through the mess. I’m—
In a sickening burst, I remember. The little girl. The truck. The blood. That’s why the grass feels wrong. Because last thing I remember I was lying in the road.
—I’m dead.
My eyes snap open again. With a gasp I try to push upright, but there’s a hand flat on the middle of my chest, holding me down.
“I told you to wait. Lie still.” This voice I recognize. It’s the boy, the voice in my head. Except now he’s not in my head. He’s hunkered down next to me with the heel of his palm on my breastbone and his fingers splayed toward my throat.
“Is this heaven?” The words slide free before I can think them through. I wish I could call them back.
“Hardly.” He sounds amused.