What help?
The skinny man with the notebook came back into view, once again eyeing Hannah from a short distance. His awkward attention bounced between her face and her torso.
Hannah glared, she glowered, she gloomed in his direction, until she was made of nothing but red lights and stop signs. She broadcast her dismissal so strongly that he took a clumsy step back.
As he departed, Hannah could see that his notebook was actually a drawing pad. For a moment, she was afraid she’d misjudged him. Maybe he only wanted to sketch her, not screw her. Who cared? She had bigger concerns.
You’ll be joined with your sister soon enough.
That was it. Amanda. The white-haired man said that Amanda would be here, wherever “here” was. The thought made Hannah cautiously euphoric. Her sister was one of the most demanding and sanctimonious people Hannah had ever known, but she was also one of the sharpest. She could steam press this quandary into something a little more wearable.
But was Amanda really here? Did she pop up in an egg of light somewhere in Chula Vista? Or was it all just some—
“Excuse me . . .”
Hannah gasped and jumped in her seat. As soon as she saw the wavy-haired artist looming at the edge of her bench, her face flushed hot and red.
“Holy shit. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No, no, no, no. You can’t be this dense.”
The artist tilted his head like a puzzled dog. “Uh, apparently so, because I’m not sure—”
“Do I look like I want to be bothered right now? Or sketched? Did you think I’d enjoy having some creepy guy stare at my breasts right now?”
“Wait, what?”
She pressed her palms together in a desperate plea. “I’m really sorry. I’m usually much nicer about it, but I’m on the verge of a complete meltdown and I need to be alone. So if you have even an ounce of goodness in you, I’m asking you to please, please, please just go away and don’t come back. We have nothing to talk about.”
His steely gray eyes grew wide with bewilderment, and suddenly Hannah felt the needle of judgment spin back toward her. From his current expression, she wouldn’t be surprised if he had already filed her under Nut, Skittish.
“I wasn’t . . .” He let out a shaky laugh. “Okay, this has taken a weird turn.”
“Oh my God. You’re still not going.”
“I’m going! I’m leaving right now! Jesus.”
“Thank you!”
“For the record, I wasn’t going to hit on you. Or sketch you. I don’t do life drawings.”
“Fine! Whatever!”
“And I wasn’t staring at your breasts, all right? I mean I see them now and they’re very nice. Congrats. But prior to this, I was actually looking at your arm.”
“I don’t care!”
“Obviously not. Sorry to have bugged you. Enjoy your meltdown.”
“Wait. What about my arm?”
With a frustrated scowl, he raised his right fist at eye level, as if he was declaring solidarity with the Socialist Youth Front. Hannah shook her head at him.
“I still don’t get it . . .”
“Wow. Okay. And you called me dense. Look at my wrist.”
She looked at his wrist. And now she saw it. The bracelet. The bangle. The same silver oddity she wore. Her mouth formed an O as perfect as their shared adornment.
“Well, look at that,” the man huffed. “I guess we do have something to talk about.”
THREE
The cartoonist joined Hannah on the bench, clutching his sketchbook against his chest as if he’d float away without it. At some point in the last half hour, the twelve-dollar pad had become an item of incalculable value. Each drawing was an anchor of stability, a snapshot reminder of the sane and rational existence that currently eluded him.
He was less sentimental about his other possessions. When Hannah asked his name, he surrendered the fat yellow lanyard that dangled around his neck. He didn’t care if she lost his Comic-Con pass. He was fairly sure the convention was over.
She held the badge with fumbling fingers. “Zack Trillinger.”
“Yup.”
“Creator of Meldweld.”
“That’s me.”
“What’s Meldweld? A comic book?”
“Comic strip.”
“Wow. How many newspapers?”
“None. It’s a web comic. I self-publish online.”
“Oh. Do you make a living from it?”
Zack kept his tense eyes locked on a woman’s floating baby stroller. Hannah was darkly relieved to see the same confounded look that had no doubt become a permanent fixture on her face.
“I make some income off of ad revenue and donations. For the rest of it, I freelance.”
“As what?”
“Commercial illustrator.”
“Oh. That’s not bad.”
“I hate it,” he retorted. “By the way, I’m sorry I got pissy with you before. If you had a morning like mine, then you have every right to be freaked out by everything.”