“No, D. I don’t think—”
“Anna.” Deo leans forward and looks me directly in the eye, keeping his voice low. “Stop, okay? I’m not a kid. Don’t get me wrong. You’ve been there every time I’ve needed you. You’re the only one who’s ever really been there for me, and I love you. But I don’t need you to lie to me.”
“I’m sorry. I know you’re not a kid, D. In some ways you never were, and I guess that’s—” I shake my head. “That’s what I wanted for you. I wanted you to know that someone else was taking care of the difficult stuff, so you’d have a chance to be a kid.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, yeah. Right. You mean the same chance you had?”
“No, but that’s the whole point. I wanted it for you because I never got that chance. I thought maybe if you had someone to watch out for you . . .”
I don’t even bother to finish. He knows what I mean.
“Tell you what,” he says as he stretches out on his cot. “We get out of this, we’ll go be kids together. Save up our extra cash and go to Disney World. Ride in those teacup things. Take pictures with Mickey Mouse, Buzz Lightyear, Scooby-Doo. All of ’em.”
He’s trying to lighten the mood. Trying to take my mind off the fact that the little round bandage on his arm completely wiped my hopes of keeping him out of this insanity.
The distraction didn’t work, but I don’t guess there’s any harm in letting him think it did. Maybe he’ll sleep better if I play along.
I snort. “Riiight. Then we’ll zip over to Hawaii for a week or two. And . . . you do know that Scooby-Doo isn’t Disney, right?”
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Don’t bother me with details, amica. I’ve got a vacation to plan. G’night.”
Deo’s asleep almost as soon as the words leave his mouth. I look at his profile and realize how much he’s changed in the past couple of years. His feet hang off the edge of the cot. The ghost of a moustache runs across his upper lip.
Definitely not a kid. Hasn’t been for a while. And present circumstances aside, does he really need me to watch out for him anymore?
That question and its implications fill me with a sense of loneliness that’s almost ironic, here in this room with its multitude of inhabitants.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I’m staring at a blue horse. The horse is wearing a pink hat, and a blanket hangs over its back. On the side of the blanket is the number 713.
The image is on a computer, with a clock that reads 12:41 near the top of the screen. When the time flips to 12:42, the image changes as well. Now I’m looking at a neon purple-and-yellow zebra, wearing a blue jacket with the number 282 printed on the side.
Deo says, “Do you think this is someone’s job? I mean, does someone actually get paid to come up with these?”
“Probably. But shh for a minute . . . I’m trying to remember something.”
I keep staring at the screen. Just before it flips to 12:43, I say, “Next one is a green dog. A dachshund. Orange sweater. Number is 83 . . . 7? I think.”
A brief pause and the image shifts. The number is 831. And the sweater is closer to red, I guess.
“Whoa,” Deo says. “That’s . . .”
I turn toward Deo and—
I’ve been fading in and out of sleep for a while. I rub my eyes and lie still for a few minutes. Stupid, surreal dreams are better than the Molly dream, which I had three times tonight. The second time around, I woke up as Dacia brought the metal bar—which, upon closer inspection, I think may actually have been a metal bat—down on my forearm. Then I bounced back to Lucas and the van, so I don’t get the sense this is going to be a linear progression.
Jaden stirs uneasily in my head. He’s a quieter guest than most, definitely quieter than Molly was.
Yeah, well, I’ve had people messin’ in my head before. It’s not fun. Will. That Maria girl who likes to make a damn game out of it.
The name is familiar and I’m about to ask him about her, but he’s not done.
And that woman with the black hair.
Dacia?
Yeah. She checked my head out a few weeks back, wondering how much Will had shared with me. I think she put the last nail in my coffin, so to speak. But . . . anyway . . . I’m not sure that thing with the green wiener dog was a dream. It felt a little more like one of my visions. I don’t know if that’s good news to you or bad, but . . . thought I should let you know.
The crazy dream—or whatever it was—had almost faded away, but now I can visualize the dog again. Stubby legs. Orange sweater. A number on it. 831, I think. Or maybe 837.