Jules just looks at me dully. “We don’t need to pretend. But we’re all in one piece and we’re going to be in here for hours. Why not? Come on, Will.”
I want to stuff Jules’s mouth with all of the remaining gauze bandages before this escalates. Too late.
“You’re telling each other stories?” Hayden is on his cot, hands knotted behind his head. He glances at us like we’re dumb kindergartners. “How adorable. I’ll do ‘The Three Little Pigs.’”
“Not fairy tales, idiot,” Jules says, and the word “idiot” comes out so violently I glance at him in surprise. Hayden sits up a bit. Can’t see his expression, but he’s probably angry, Jules is glowering at him, unflinching.
“We’re telling each other things about us,” Lilly says quickly. She’s been super quiet ever since the announcement that our parents think we’re dead. But she’s not zoning out. She’s still helping, still dealing. “So that we all know. In case something happens.”
I edge over to her. “Are you okay?” I ask, and she looks up briefly. Smiles a quick, pained little smile. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m fine.”
“You should do it, too, Hayden,” Jules says, still glaring. “Now that you’re alive again. After Will.”
“Jules.” I toss a kernel of rice at him. “Stop.”
“And after Anouk.”
“You wish.”
“Come on, Will,” Jules says, slinging an arm across his forehead. “Give us something.”
“There’s not a lot to tell,” Will says. “I don’t have such an interesting life, really.”
“I’d believe it,” Hayden says under his breath.
Will doesn’t even acknowledge him. “I grew up in a little town on the coast of South Carolina,” he says, fiddling with his wounded hand, turning it slowly at the wrist. “It’s called Beaufort. My parents run a gift shop. I’m interested in bridges and how they’re constructed. I have a little sister. I like sailboats, but I don’t own one. That’s pretty much it.”
Jules peers at him curiously, as if gauging whether he’s withholding any juicy bits of information. He might be. He might not be. He might just like sailboats and not own one, and that’s the end of it.
“Is your hand okay?” I ask, trying to end this as soon as possible.
Will nods, lifts his bandaged fist in a slow salute. Lilly went a bit crazy with the gauze, three full rolls, wrapping it up sloppily.
“You can say you sacrificed it for a noble cause,” Jules says. “Or tell people it was eaten by a shark. That’s what I’d do.”
“People?” I pick up more kernels of rice from the bottom of the plastic dish it came in. Bite them slowly. “What people?”
“You know.” Jules drops his gaze, uncomfortable. “People. When we get out . . . ”
I glance at him. Smile. I can’t stop myself. It’s nice to hear him say it—When we get out--like it’s a foregone conclusion. Like just because that’s where we’ve set our sights, it’s going to happen and nothing will be able to stop us.
I try to imagine it: me, creaking off the plane at JFK in a wheelchair. Apparently my subconscious has given me a broken leg. Extra pity points. My parents are waiting for me at the top of the skywalk. They’re smiling. We thought we’d never see you again! they’re saying. We’re so proud of you. We always knew you could do it.
But for some reason, I can’t quite get Dad’s face straight in my head, or Mom’s clunky rings, the ones she wears every single day, and I don’t care all that much when they start congratulating me, telling me how I’m good enough after all, good enough to be their daughter. They start to blur like figures behind glass, water flowing down a car window. Now they’re gone. I wheel away into the airport. Pass newsstands with my face plastered everywhere. It’s my picture on the papers, and normally I would be happy, get that brief spike of pride and accomplishment, but I don’t: it’s like somebody cloned me and put that sour, pinch-faced version of me out for everyone to see. I don’t see any similarities. I keep wheeling, out of the airport and across the parking lot, and I think someone’s waiting for me up ahead, people who don’t care about newspapers or anything I’ve done––
“Ooh. Someone is having secret thoughts.” Hayden’s watching me, and he has a weird expression on his face, part challenge, part slinking envy.
I plunk myself against the wall, bending my neck to fit the curve of the metal. Stop daydreaming, Ooky. You’re still trapped.