I start pacing again. There’s nothing here, but something’s wrong—I know it. I pull out drawers, looking for something, but I don’t know what. I kneel down to open the trunk.
It’s lying on its side, so I heft it upright, grunting. It’s a lot heavier than I expected. For a second I just look at it, puzzled by the huge padlock and round holes drilled into the side. Then an idea forms…an idea so terrible, my hearts shoots up into my head and starts pounding, the noise replacing all thoughts.
I tug on the lock, but it won’t give. A silver glint catches my eye. A key on top of the dresser. I grab it. My fingers fumble as I slide it into the heavy lock. It falls open, and I lift the lid.
MY EARS RING like a sonic blast just split the air. All frequencies interrupted, everything goes white. I’m deaf. I’m blind. My pulse has gone so slow and cold, I can’t move.
Julian is inside the trunk.
His body’s contorted into an impossible position. There are shiny red welts and purpling bruises up and down his arms and back. Blood is caked under his nose and mouth. Every rib in his back is visible. His shoulder blades are sticking out, sharp like wings.
Inside the trunk, the stale sick odor of the room is stronger—a combination of sweat and blood and urine. He doesn’t move, not even a little flicker when the light falls over him. There’s no sign that he’s breathing.
Then, under the sharp shoulders there’s a movement so small, I don’t know if I just imagined it. Then a sound, a tiny rasp.
He opens his eyes.
Relief hits me so hard, I feel weak. He’s alive, but he doesn’t seem to see me. He blinks, tearing up like he’s looking into the sun.
He makes a lurching move to rise, but he can’t. I try to lift him, but he cringes away, folding himself back to the bottom. The terrifying thought suddenly strikes—Russell. He did this, and he could come back any second. I reach into my pocket for my phone and then remember—shit—it’s still on my bedside table sitting in a bowl of rice.
I start talking, saying Julian’s name over and over, trying to sound soothing even though I’m panicking. I reach for him, and this time he lets me lift him out. I try to avoid touching any part of him that looks bruised or cut, but that’s impossible. My hands are under his frail arms when his legs give out, and he crumbles to the floor.
“Open it,” he says. “Please.”
“Julian, you’re out. You’re out now.”
“Open it…for the stars.”
He’s not making any sense. “Julian.”
He slides on his stomach along the floor, tries to open the trunk again, but his arms flop uselessly.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to get back in.”
But he keeps pulling desperately at the lid, saying something about stars. I try to grab him, but he cringes and holds his arms over his head.
“Julian!” I’m terrified Russell will be back any second. “We have to go now.”
He blinks at me. Something seems to register. “Adam?”
“Yes.”
“You can see me?”
“I can see you.”
He nods and closes his eyes.
I lift him easily. I’d like to believe it’s because of my fear-fueled adrenaline, but I suspect he really is this light.
We’re on the street when he goes totally limp, and I’m pretty sure he’s stopped breathing.
I jog through the automatic emergency-room doors, carrying him with the steady accusing thought that I’m doing this all wrong. His head is flopping around like a doll’s—I should slow down, keep his neck stable, but he’s so still, and his skin’s ice-cold and clammy like a reptile’s.
I stop for a minute, scan the empty white expanse of the room. Where are the crowds of crying, bleeding patients? Where are the screaming women clutching their bellies as they’re wheeled off for labor? Where are the fucking doctors?
Through a small glass window on the opposite side of the ER, I spot a woman calmly typing at her computer. I start jogging again and call out, “A little help?” She clearly sees me—we’re making eye contact—but her face has no expression. She stands—slowly—and turns away, exiting through a back door behind her glass partition. “Hey!” I spin around the empty room.
A minute later, a pair of double doors creak open, and the woman and a bearded guy slowly wheel a bed to us. Maybe their almost sedated calm is supposed to calm me, but it’s having the opposite effect.
“He’s really hurt,” I tell them.
They take him from me and lay him down. I follow as they roll the bed through the double doors with the same casual indifference as they did when it was empty. As we walk, I try to answer their questions, but it’s like I’m drunk. All my explanations are nonsensical and thick-tongued.