After that, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Continue to the cabin by myself, I guess. Dad will be expecting me. I have to be there…
I dump the thought out the window, trying to focus on the positive — a new thing for me, since I’ve always been a self-avowed “realist.” I guess desperate times call for desperate measures.
“So what are you parents like?” I ask, turning to Chris.
He shrugs.
“They’re farmers,” he replies.
“That’s it? Give me more to work with, here. I’ve got time to listen.”
“They’ll like you,” he says, smiling. “My dad’s a little rough around the edges… My brother will love you.” He visible cringes when he says the last sentence, which, of course, piques my radar-like curiosity.
“Oh, so he is single,” I answer, wiggling my eyebrows. “Did you hear that, Isabel? Chris’s brother is single.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” she drawls, closing her eyes.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Jeff,” Chris replies, annoyed. “And he’s seventeen. He’s too young for you.”
“I’m nineteen,” I snort. “That’s like, a two year age difference. Who cares?”
“Yeah, well…he’s not your type.”
“Not my type?” I start laughing, holding my head in my hands. “You have no idea what my type is.”
“Neither do you,” he mutters.
I just keep on laughing softly, realizing that I can’t seem to stop. At the same time, my headache comes roaring back with all the force of a steam engine. The chills, nausea and all around gross feeling I’ve been fighting off for days hits me in the face like a brick wall. I inhale sharply.
And then I start crying.
Just like that. I literally burst into irrational tears. My hands are shaking and I’m acting like an emotional train wreck. All of this happens in about ten minutes, enough time for the pressure to build and for me to make a fool out of myself.
I think I’m losing my sanity.
“Cassidy, what’s wrong?” Chris asks, looking slightly worried.
“Yeah, what’s wrong?” Isabel echoes, poking her head up front.
“I don’t know,” I gasp, unable to stop sniffling.
I comb my hair back from my face while Isabel and Chris try to calm me down. “Relax, Cassie,” Chris keeps saying. “Relax. It’s okay. Take a deep breath. This isn’t the end of the world. Ah, okay, it is, but we’re alive, right?”
“Chris,” I say.
He casts an anxious glance at me.
“I’m going to puke,” I state matter-of-factly, feeling nauseas. “Like, right now!”
I slap my hand over my mouth. Chris slams on the breaks like a racing pro and eases to the side of the road. I throw the door open and jump outside, the cold air stinging my cheeks. I kneel down and vomit all over the gravel, heaving up a bunch of food that I don’t have in my stomach.
How is that even possible?
Chris runs around the front of the car and kneels beside me, holding my hair away from my face. He rubs my back as I upchuck some more just for fun, keeping my eyes closed. I just can’t handle gore, even when I’m the one responsible for it.
“Cassidy, look at me,” Chris says, turning my face towards him. “You’re sick. Okay? That’s all. You’re going to be fine.”
The lines of his face are tight. I dry heave and look down at the gravel I just plastered with my insides, horrified. It’s bloody. I’m vomiting blood.
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask, shaking.
He adjusts his stance and tightens his grip on my arms.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But my mom will.”
“Your…mom?” I murmur, getting drowsy all of the sudden.
“Yeah. She used to be a nurse. Did I mention that?”
“Mmm…no.”
“Huh.” Chris scoops me up into his arms like I don’t weight anything. A totally swoonworthy moment that I ruin by coughing up blood all over my shirt. “Hang in there, kid.”
Isabel opens the back door and Chris lays me flat against the floor in the backseat. The world is spinning around me anyway, so I don’t care. Everything is quickly getting loud and blurry. Painful to listen to. I squeeze my eyes shut, not even noticing when we get back on the road. When I open my eyes again I can see streams sunlight coming through the windshield as Isabel peers at my face like a curious cat.
“Are you still alive?” she asks.
I blink, shaking my head.
“She says she’s not alive,” Isabel says, looking over the front seat.
I fade out before I can hear Chris’s reply. If it’s possible to feel any weirder than I do now, the pit of my stomach cramps up in pain. I slide my hand under my shirt and pull it up, glimpsing my bruise from crowbar boy back in Santa Clarita. It’s totally black and blue, veins of red running through it. It’s also painful to the touch.
“Guys…” I mutter, but don’t finish my sentence. I feel way too exhausted to open my mouth. The only thing I can remember before I pass out is how loud my heart sounds in my ears, like it’s trying to escape my chest. Totally not how my heart is supposed to sound.
Then again, this hasn’t exactly been the best week of good luck.
All I can think about is my dad stuck in an Omega concentration camp, lined up against a railing before he gets shot a bunch of blue-uniformed guards. Who would have believed that just a couple of weeks ago, my biggest problem was getting an employment rejection from an airline company. Now everything’s gone. Stuff like that doesn’t matter anymore. Money doesn’t matter. College degrees don’t matter. Whether or not you saw the latest Oscar winning film doesn’t matter.
All that matters is one thing: are you still alive?
These are the totally morbid thoughts that run through my mind before I wake up. I feel numb all over my body, like a bunch of needles are pricking my skin. I’ve only felt that once, when I broke my arm and I had to go to the hospital to set it. But there are no more hospitals. So where am I?
I force my eyes open. The first thing I see is a dark wood ceiling and a couple of closed curtains with sunlight poking through the openings. I’m lying like a mummy with my hands to my sides underneath a heavy quilt.
How did I get into a bed? It’s way more comfy than the back of a camper shell. I chalk that up to score one for me.
I push myself up, surprised to notice that my headache is gone. Finally. I feel a little spacey, like I’m floating above everything in the room, but besides that…I feel good. “Hello?” I say, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I clear my throat. “Hello?”
No answer.
I peel the sheets back, noting what I’m wearing. A pair of flannel pajama pants and a white tank top. Creepy. Who dressed me? I hope it was Isabel.
It better have been Isabel.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, touching cold hardwood flooring. The whole room is like a little cabin, with pictures and books and an old lamp covered with dust. I touch an old dresser and spot a picture frame. Fueled by my insane curious nature, I grab it and look it over. It’s a picture of a rugged, handsome young man in a suit and tie. He bears a striking resemblance to Chris.
Hmm.
I turn it over. Someone has written Chris, Senior Year, on the back in permanent ink. I stare it then turn the picture over, smitten with the young man in the picture. Chris. Ten years ago. And now he’s got a goatee, long hair and a tattoo of a cobra on his left bicep.
Nice.
I put the picture back and creep to the door. I know where I am now. We must have made it to Chris’s family home. I open it and peek into a long dark hallway. Everything looks like it was built in the 1940s. The architecture is on the smaller side. I’m guessing there was no obesity epidemic back then, because my great aunt could never squeeze through the doorframe…