I look up, spit blood.
Luke’s front door is still a million miles away. How is it possible I’ve moved so much and it’s not gotten any closer?
There’s a thump-thump-thump from inside my house. I’ve stomped up and down those stairs enough times to recognize the sound. He’s coming.
I push through the pain, get back up on my knees, and crawl towards the boxwood bush as fast as I can. I go deaf, can’t hear anything as I haul my ass over the bush and launch myself at Luke’s front door.
I slam my fists into the glass and hammer hard. My other hand works the doorbell as I look back over my shoulder.
There’s a skeleton standing on my porch.
‘Please, Luke. Open the door.’ I try to scream, but fear is holding my vocal cords hostage and it’s a timid shout at best.
The skeleton turns sharply, then leaps off the porch. I think maybe he’s going to make a run for it, but then he starts marching towards me.
I thud on the door. Thud so hard it’s a wonder my fists don’t go through the wood. ‘Luke!’ This time I do scream. It rips from my throat like a liberated lion, shatters wine glasses, makes the atmosphere shake, leaves dust in its wake.
A warm beam of orange light breaks like sunrise from behind the door. I hear the dangling of a chain and the door flies open.
I don’t take him in, don’t say a word, just throw myself at his chest and press myself airtight against his torso.
‘Norah. What the fuck?’ he says.
‘There’s . . . there’s . . .’ It’s hard to talk through sobs. I’m choking on a river of snot and tears. ‘Someone’s in my house.’
‘Norah, where’s your mom? Is she still in the house?’
I shake my head no. That’s all I manage before the feeling in my lips disappears and my face melts right off. He wraps one arm around my shoulders; the other snakes around the back of my legs.
‘Luke, what’s going on?’ I hear his mom ask as he lifts me up. I sink into his arms, all my muscles sighing simultaneously.
‘Call the cops and an ambulance,’ he says. I press my head against his heart, feel its angry beat beneath my cheek.
‘I got you,’ he says. ‘You’re safe.’
The sound of his breathing carries me off into blissful unconsciousness.
Gentle fingers stroke my cheek, and my eyes flicker open.
My body is all crunched up, bent around like a jelly bean. Mom is looking down on me, smiling. She presses something spongy against my mouth, and my lips latch on to it, suck water from it until the thing is bone dry.
‘Go easy,’ she says in tones softer than silk. ‘Too much too soon will make you sick.’
I don’t focus on anything but her face. Still, dread circles overhead like a flock of starving vultures.
‘Where are we?’ I ask, but we both know I already know the answer to that. The smell of industrial-strength disinfectant is corroding my nasal passages. The sheets covering me feel like fibreglass. I’m in hospital.
‘Baby, try not to panic.’
Panic. Right. That would make sense given my current situation, but my body seems to be behaving. I can feel the flutter of something in my chest, maybe fear. Not the same kind of fear I’ve been sharing headspace with for the past four years. This is different. Weaker. It stays hidden. I’m not sure it has the drive to push through to the surface.
I lift my eyes, spot my hand wrapped tightly in white bandages, a yellow IV line poking out of the top. I follow the tubes attached to it, up and up, until I find two bags of fluid, half-empty. One is clear, the other milky. Safe to assume that explains the sudden change in anxiety levels.
‘Mom?’
‘It’s just a painkiller and some sedative.’
‘No.’ I shake my head, reach for the needle, but my other hand is bound in dressings too. It’s refusing to go in the direction I tell it to. At first I think the extra padding is responsible for restricting my movement. Then I realize it’s not the bandages at all. My body is ignoring me.
A drunk whimper flops from my lips. I focus hard on my fingers, try to psychically beam my instructions straight to the source, but they refuse to acknowledge me. It’s the medicine. It’s circulating in my system, killing off my control like an evil little nanobot. My breathing hitches.
‘Sweetie.’ Mom restrains my hand with the slightest of touches. ‘Listen to me: you’ve been hooked up to this thing for almost two days. Two days and nothing horrible has happened. It’s helping.’
‘I can’t . . . I . . .’ My head goes foggy and some monitor starts beeping a single obscene note. It sounds like a microwave when it’s finished a cycle and wants your attention. Is that my heartbeat? Should it be beating that fast? Should it . . . I can’t finish my thought; I don’t remember what it was.