But that didn’t make sense, Alvin’s brain insisted. Margo was safe. Margo had gone to school. Margo would be walking in the back door any minute now. Whoever had written this letter was very confused.
And though nowhere on the letter did it actually say who its author was, somehow Alvin knew.
He knew who had written it.
He knew his sister was not going to walk in that door.
He knew the Overcoat Man had her.
MEET ME AT THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS.
ONCE I’M INSIDE, YOU’LL GET YOUR SISTER BACK.
Alvin wasn’t worried for his sister’s life. That was safe, protected, not in danger.
But there were still so many ways to hurt someone who couldn’t die.
He had to get her back.
—from Alvin Hatter and the Overcoat Man
16
In an effort to take my mind off Sam’s cryptic answer from the night before, I read Aunt Helen’s next letter before I had to leave for school.
Lottie,
I certainly hope you aren’t reading this from a jail cell.
Kidding! (I hope.)
I’ve been spending so much time alone lately, so much tying-up-loose-ends time, so much letter-writing time, that I think I’m starting to get a little stir-crazy. There is a fine line to walk between too much quiet and just the right amount.
There can be good that comes out of being alone, of course, but I think at this current moment I am doing myself no favors.
I know you also have a tendency to pull away from others when things get hard, and I challenge you now to do the complete opposite. Let others in. Embrace a crowd. Find somewhere where it is impossible to be alone, and see what comes of it.
I think I will do the same.
Love always, H.
I texted my mom as soon as I finished reading the note:
Not feeling great. Don’t think I’ll make it to school.
I knew she was at the hospital and that she kept her phone on her for emergencies. Her reply came almost instantly:
OK? Should I worry? Need IV? Blood transfusion? MRI? I love you?
Just a headache. ILYT.
OK, honey. Senioritis. It’s going around. Feel better. Get some rest.
I didn’t love lying to her (I felt physically fine), but it was a small transgression and, in the scheme of things, another day missed wouldn’t really matter. I got dressed and went downstairs, made coffee and took it outside to the porch.
It was muggy outside—it grew muggier every day, a crescendo of humidity that would break only when the first summer thunderstorm hit, and then for a few hours in the dead of night.
Aunt Helen was right about my tendency to hide away when things weren’t perfect. My anxiety made it worse, made me feel like something terrible would happen sometimes when I left the house. I generally avoided crowded places, instead preferring to stay at home with a good book. Or to be with Em. It was probably telling that she was really the only good friend I had.
Of course she was my first thought. I considered texting her and asking her to skip school with me (she would no doubt be thrilled), but then I thought that if there was a point to Aunt Helen’s letter (to all her letters, really), it definitely wasn’t to get me to spend more time with the people I already spent all my time with.
She was trying to nudge me out of my comfort zone. That much was obvious.
It was nice, in a way. Annoying, in a way. Like everything our families make us do.
I was halfway through my cup of coffee before I figured out where I could go. Where I should go.
My anxiety started up before I even left the house, but I pretended not to notice it (because that worked so well last time?). I charged through the motions: putting on my shoes, getting into my car, driving, parking, turning the car off. Only then, when I was in the hospital parking lot once again, the hospital where she had died, did I let myself feel fully the emotions that this place held.
How many people had died here? How many people were here now who wouldn’t make it through the end of the week, through the end of the month? Would I die here one day? My parents? Abe?
I put my hands on the steering wheel and felt the rising panic in my chest. Such a familiar feeling, so easy to let it overtake all sense of rationality. I struggled to picture the driftwood structure again, I closed my eyes and assured myself that I was fine, that nobody ever died from a panic attack, that panic attacks were only caused by the fear of the physical sensations of fear itself.
My heart rate slowly returned to normal. I didn’t feel perfect, but I felt better. I got out of the car and walked into the hospital, past the reception area to the fifth floor. The cancer ward. And in particular: the children’s cancer ward.
I checked in at the front desk.
Abe had done this many times when he’d needed a break from sitting by Aunt Helen’s bedside. He’d always ask me to come with him, but I never had the courage to walk into a room full of kids who were that sick, to look them in the eyes, to talk to them and spend time with them.
It had felt too overwhelmingly sad.
But that seemed incredibly selfish now; if I was sad, what must they be feeling?
I recognized the guy at the children’s ward reception desk. His name was Jamie, and he’d gone to my high school. He was a few years older than me and practically famous—he’d won the state lottery jackpot a week before he graduated. His payout was twenty-three million dollars. He’d been on all the news shows and in the papers and everything. He was a quiet guy with modest taste in the face of sudden wealth. He’d bought a bowling alley in town and a small house in the middle of cow country with the winnings and kept his job at the hospital.
He looked up when I approached the desk. He was wearing pale-pink scrubs covered in kittens. He had longish, messy hair and a beard. His smile lit up his face.
“Lottie, right?” he said.
“Yeah. Hi.”
“I’m sorry about your aunt. I knew her, you know.”
“Oh yeah?”
“She would come in here and read to the kids a lot. After her chemo. Parents were always freakin’ out, I guess she was famous or something? Honestly, I don’t pay much attention to that. Your brother too. I used to see him a lot. He’s a rad guy.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
“I haven’t seen him since she passed away. People drift in and out of here, and that’s okay. There’s always someone new, someone who is able to give a little bit of their time.”
“Like me.”
“Oh, is that why you’re here? That’s awesome.”
“I was just thinking I could read something? That’s what my brother used to do, right? Read to them?”
“Yeah, and he did all the voices too, he was a big hit. He always read this story about a brother and a sister. I think they were immortal or something? Always on the run from some guy in a jacket?”
“The Overcoat Man,” I said.