Think, think. Through the panic, Dodge carved a clear path in his mind. A goal; he needed a goal. He knew instinctively that it was his job to get the girls out safely, just like it was his job to make sure nothing bad ever happened to Dayna, his Dayna, his only sister and best friend. He couldn’t fail again. No matter what.
The window was too high—he’d never reach it. And it was so narrow. . . . But maybe he could give Natalie a boost. . . . She might be able to fit. Then what? Didn’t matter. Heather might be able to squeeze through too, although he doubted it.
“Nat.” He stood up. The air tasted gritty and thick. It was hot. “Come on. You have to go through the window.”
Nat stared. “I can’t leave you guys.”
“You have to. Go. Take your phone. Find help.” Dodge steadied himself with one hand on the wall. He was losing it. “It’s the only way.”
Dodge barely saw her nod in the dark. When she stood up, he could smell her sweat. For a crazy second, he wished he could hug her, and tell her it would be okay. But there was no time. An image of Dayna popped into his head, the mangled ruin of her car, her legs shriveling slowly to pale-white stalks.
His fault.
Dodge bent down, gripped Nat by the waist, helped her climb onto his shoulders. She drove a foot into his chest by accident, and he nearly lost it and fell. He was weak. It was the goddamn smoke. But he managed to steady himself and straighten up.
“The window!” Nat gasped. And Heather, somehow, understood. She fumbled for the wrench she’d spotted earlier and passed it upward. Nat swung. There was a tinkling. A rush of air blew into the room, and after just a second a whooshing sound, as the fire—beyond the door, edging closer—sensed that air, felt it, and surged toward it, like an ocean thundering toward the beach. Black smoke poured underneath the door.
“Go!” Dodge shouted. He felt Nat kick his head, his ear; then she was outside.
He dropped to his knees again. He could barely see. “You next,” he said to Heather.
“I’ll never fit.” She said it in a whisper, but somehow he heard. He was relieved. He didn’t really think he had the strength left to lift her.
His head was spinning. “Lie down,” he said, in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. She did, pressing flat against the ground. He was glad to lie down too. Lifting Nat that small distance had exhausted him. It was as though the smoke was a blanket . . . as though it was covering him, and telling him to sleep. . . .
He was back on the carousel again. But this time the spectators were screaming. And it had started to rain. He wanted to get off . . . the ride was whirling faster and faster . . . lights were spinning overhead . . .
Lights, spinning, voices shouting. Sirens screaming.
Sky.
Air.
Someone—Mom?—saying, “You’re okay, son. You’re going to be okay.”
SATURDAY, JULY 9
heather
WHEN HEATHER WOKE UP, SHE IMMEDIATELY KNEW SHE was in a hospital, which was kind of disappointing. In movies, people were always groggy and confused and asking where they were and what had happened. But there was no mistaking the smell of disinfectant, the clean white sheets, the beep-beep-beep of medical equipment. It was actually kind of pleasant—the sheets were clean and crisp; her mom and Bo weren’t shouting; the air didn’t reek of old booze. She’d slept better than she had in a long time, and for several minutes she kept her eyes closed, breathing deeply.
Then Bishop was speaking, quietly. “Come on, Heather. We know you’re faking. I can tell by the way your eyelid is twitching.”
Heather opened her eyes. Joy surged in her chest. Bishop was sitting in a chair drawn up to the bed, leaning forward, as close as he could get without crawling into the cot with her. Nat was there too, eyes swollen from crying, and she rocketed straight at Heather.
“Heather.” She started sobbing again. “Oh my God, Heather. I was so scared.”
“Hi, Nat.” Heather had to speak through a mouthful of Nat’s hair, which tasted like soap. She must have showered.
“Don’t suffocate her, Nat,” Bishop said. Nat drew back, still sniffling, but she kept a grip on Heather’s hand, as though she were worried Heather might float away. Bishop was smiling, but his face was sheet white and there were dark circles under his eyes. Maybe, Heather thought, he had been sitting by her bed all night, worried she might be dying. The idea pleased her.
Heather didn’t bother asking what had happened. It was obvious. Nat had gotten help, somehow, and Heather must have been carted off to the hospital when she was passed out. So she asked, “Is Dodge okay? Where is he?”
“Gone. He got up a few hours ago and walked out. He’s okay,” Nat said all in a rush. “The doctor said you’d be okay too.”
“You won the challenge,” Bishop said, his face expressionless. Nat shot him a look.
Heather inhaled again. When she did, she felt a sharp pain between her ribs. “Does my mom know?” she asked.
Nat and Bishop exchanged a quick glance.