The House

Gavin tried to remember back to when they’d studied first aid in health class, specifically, the best way to respond to someone who’d just experienced an accident.

Pale skin, ragged breathing, disorientation. Delilah was definitely in shock. Her lips weren’t blue and she seemed to be standing okay, so he guessed that was a positive. But it was freezing in here—colder than it had been downstairs, which. . . made no sense. This was his bathroom. House didn’t come into this room.

Did it?

Delilah swayed on her feet, and he reached out to steady her. “Let’s get you out of here,” he said gently, placing a towel over her arm and wrapping another around her. He placed a hand on her shoulder and tried to lead her toward the edge of the tub. Delilah wasn’t moving.

With no other choice, Gavin scooped her up in his arms, navigating the slippery floor and carrying her to his room. “Lights!” he shouted, at the end of his patience with all of them.

Bedroom Door flew open, and he stepped easily inside, hesitating a moment before placing Delilah on Bed. All he needed was for it to decide to prove a point and toss her to the floor, or for Headboard to rise up, towering over her like something out of a nightmare.

No.

He gave it a warning look and mumbled, “Be good,” under his breath before he moved to the dresser, careful to stay close to her.

There wasn’t much to pick from, being that Gavin was so much taller than Delilah, but he managed to find a pair of sweatpants he’d worn two summers ago and a T-shirt he suspected was the closest to her size he would find.

With the clothes and a pair of boxers he wasn’t even sure he should offer, he turned back, approaching her a lot like he would an injured animal: keeping his steps light and making sure she knew he was there. “Here’s some. . . if you want.”

She nodded numbly, and he set everything down.

“Can we clean this up first? Can I at least see?” he asked.

When she nodded again, he pulled her arm away from her body. Gavin knew Delilah was hurt and that he’d seen blood, but that in no way prepared him for the bleeding, oozing wound that greeted him when she lifted the towel.

A chill moved up his spine, and he snapped his mouth closed, intent on not saying anything that might alarm her. It was angry and red, jagged and singed around the edges in the shape of what looked like a handprint. It was as if the first layer of skin was just gone. Like someone had torn her open as they would a Christmas present, a single ribbon of skin at a time.

Gavin pushed the image to the back of his mind. Right now Delilah needed a doctor. He would try to figure out how this had happened later.

? ? ?

There was an old car in the garage behind House, a 1967 Buick Riviera. Gavin didn’t drive it often. He preferred to walk or ride his bike when he needed something. Taking the car out of the garage meant the possibility of being pulled over, or maybe an accident, and he had absolutely no idea if the car was even legal to drive. He certainly wasn’t.

It had faded blue paint and a bit of rust marring the finish, but Gavin loved that car and spent hours reading the owner’s manual and researching how to fix things himself. He’d learned that gas would go bad after sitting for too long, so on a few occasions he’d had to remove the fuel tank and drain it. He’d changed spark plugs and wires that had deteriorated. He’d rebuilt the carburetor and replaced gaskets and vacuum hoses, and he liked to imagine that it was as mechanically sound now as it had been the last day it was driven.

But Gavin didn’t even want to think of when that had been.

“You have a car?” Delilah asked, lifting her head from where it rested on his shoulder. “And you don’t have to carry me. I can walk.”

“Maybe I like carrying you.”

She was dry and dressed in his clothes now, and Gavin struggled to focus on getting her into the car and to the doctor without anyone seeing them.

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