That night, I have the same nightmare I’ve been having for months—the one where someone comes at me from behind and tries to strangle me. I feel the hands on my throat, pressing tighter and tighter, but I can’t see who’s doing it. Sometimes the person doesn’t get as far as touching me, but I know he’s there. Other times, I can feel the breath going out of me. My head goes light, my body floats away, and I start to fall.
I wake up, and for a few seconds I don’t know where I am. I sit up and turn on a light and look around my room, as if the man might be lurking behind the desk or in the closet. I reach for my laptop. In the days Before, I would have written something—a short story or a blog post or just random thoughts. I would have written till it was out of me and on the page. But now I open a new document and stare at the screen. I write a couple words, erase them. Write, erase. I was the writer, not Eleanor, but there is something about the act of writing that makes me feel as if I’m cheating on her. Maybe because I’m here and she’s not, and the whole thing—every big or small moment I’ve lived since last April—feels like cheating in some way.
Finally, I sign onto Facebook. There’s a new message from Finch, 1:04 a.m. Did you know the world’s tallest woman and one of the world’s tallest men were from Indiana? What does that say about our state?
I check the current time: 1:44 a.m. I write, We have greater nutritional resources than other states?
I watch the page, the house quiet around me. I tell myself he’s probably asleep by now, that it’s just me who’s awake. I should read or turn out the light and try to get some rest before I have to get up for school.
Finch writes: Also the world’s largest man. I’m worried that our nutritional resources are actually damaged. Maybe this is one reason I’m so tall. What if I don’t stop growing? Will you want me just as much when I’m fifteen feet nine inches?
Me: How can I want you then when I don’t want you now?
Finch: Give it time. The thing I’m most concerned with is how I’m going to ride a bike. I don’t think they make them that big.
Me: Look on the bright side—your legs will be so long that one of your steps will be the same as thirty or forty of a regular person’s.
Finch: So you’re saying I can carry you when we wander.
Me: Yes.
Finch: After all, you’re famous.
Me: You’re the hero, not me.
Finch: Believe me, I’m no hero. What are you doing up, anyway?
Me: Bad dreams.
Finch: Regular occurrence?
Me: More than I’d like.
Finch: Since the accident or before?
Me: Since. You?
Finch: Too much to do and write and think. Besides, who would keep you company?
I want to say I’m sorry about the Bartlett Dirt—no one really believes the lies they print; it’ll all die down eventually—but then he writes: Meet me at the Quarry.
Me: I can’t.
Finch: Don’t keep me waiting. On second thought, I’ll meet you at your house.
Me: I can’t.
No answer.
Me: Finch?