I can tell him what he wants to hear. “I’m crazy.”
Dr. Franklin shakes his head. “You’re not. But you do have some needs that have to be addressed. We’ve changed your medication again. Are you feeling any negative side effects?”
“I don’t know,” I say. My eyes slide over to the window, to the sunlight slicing through the iron bars in front of the glass. “Where are Dr. Rivers and Mr. Minh?”
“They’re gone,” Dr. Franklin says, sighing. He sounds frustrated, angry, but I’m not sure if it’s at me or at the situation. “Bo, we’re going to increase the frequency of your therapy sessions,” he continues after a moment. “Your lessons are on hold until we can get you the right balance of medication and therapy.”
He reaches over and puts his hand over mine. “I’m concerned about you, Bo. And I’m concerned that you’re not processing what happened to Sofía.”
Sofía was just here, I think. She was here, and I saw her. I felt her. She was real.
As real as he is.
Before I can think about it, I yank my hand away from the bed and rake my fingernails over the back of his, clawing him and scraping his skin away. I watch the red welts rise up on his wrist.
“That hurt, Bo,” Dr. Franklin says, jerking away and staring down at his hand. “Why would you do that?”
“To see if you can heal.”
“Of course I can heal,” Dr. Franklin says, exasperated. “But we’ve talked about this before, in group, remember? You can’t just break something to see if it can be fixed. Destruction for destruction’s sake is not an appropriate release of your feelings.”
That’s not what I meant, and he should know that, at least on some level. The welts should be gone now, not pricking red with blood. Even if his mind has forgotten his powers, his body should still be able to fix the damage done.
Unless . . .
Unless it’s true. We don’t have powers. We never did.
And maybe I don’t need powers. I could live with that.
But I can’t live without Sofía, and no powers means no Sofía.
Over Dr. Franklin’s shoulder, I catch a glimpse of someone in the shadows. As I stare, the figure moves into the light, standing in the center of my doorway.
Carlos Estrada stares at me silently, water streaming down his body and soaking the carpet.
And my heart leaps with joy, even if this means that time is still leaking around me. Because if I can see Carlos, it means that my powers are real, and if my powers are real, I can still save Sofía.
When I look up again, though, it’s not Carlos in the doorway.
It’s Ryan.
He’s watching me with narrowed eyes and a grim smile. The Doctor, noticing where my gaze is, turns around. “Go to your own room, Ryan,” he says. “Or the common room. Bo and I are having a private conversation.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ryan drawls. He steps backward, but he keeps his eyes on me for as long as possible.
CHAPTER 52
The Doctor gave me drugs to help me sleep but nothing to help me stay awake after. And even though it’s dark and I actually want to sleep now, I can’t.
Especially with that music playing.
It’s haunting and melodic, and I know immediately that it’s a cello; my sister practiced enough when we were growing up that I can recognize a cello anywhere. But who has a cello at the Berk?
I creep down the hallway, following the sound of the music. At first I think it’s coming from the common room, but it’s deserted.
There’s a light in Sofía’s room.
My heart thuds in my chest. I must be traveling in my sleep again. Sofía’s door is cracked, and when I push it all the way open, I’m greeted by the sight of her. Her room is exactly as I remember it, covered in various shades of pink with a plushy rug over the floor and posters on the wall—a boy-band group, an art print by Frida Kahlo, and a calligraphic rendition of a Shakespearean quote: “To thine own self be true.”
“Sofía?”
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, a cello between her legs. Her whole body moves as she glides the bow over the strings, the rich, deep notes filling her tiny room.
“I didn’t know you could play the cello,” I say. I didn’t know she had a cello. It’s kind of a big instrument to hide in here.
“This is a fugue,” she says, her voice melding in and out of the music.
“A fugue,” I repeat.
“A repetition of a short melody,” she says. I listen for a moment, and I can pick out the strain of music repeating over and over, the sounds as intricately woven together as the strings of the timestream. “In a good fugue,” Sofía continues, “there are layers. You play one melody”—a short burst of music erupts from the cello—“and that melody is not only repeated, but developed. It evolves. It changes. It’s the same melody, but different.” She continues playing, and I hear the subtle changes. I can still recognize the original melody, but it’s bigger now, deeper.