“Dammit.”
I grabbed the key and the ice bucket, not bothering with pants, and hurried out of the room.
When I came back, he was in the exact same state as when I’d left him: burning up and delirious. He responded, at least, to the ice.
“What the hell!” He shoved at me lethargically, but at least I could understand him. “Stop. I’m fine.” His “I’m fine,” however, was less than convincing, and I was stronger than he was in his fevered state.
“Here . . . ,” I said, my voice gentler as I wrapped the cubes in the washcloth and pressed them against his neck.
With the ice buffered by the cloth, he stopped thrashing against me and let me leave it. When the ice melted, I replaced it.
But I needed to do more.
“I’ll be back,” I whispered against his ear, and felt the heat coming off him in rippling waves.
The lady who staffed the office for the overnight shift was nice enough, if a little hard of hearing. Apparently they sold T-shirts but not Tylenol. Go figure. She didn’t “believe in the stuff,” she explained, so she couldn’t help me out.
I did my best not to roll my eyes, but it took every ounce of self-control to stop myself. Who didn’t believe in Tylenol?
She did, however, point out that there was an all-night gas station just “down the way a bit,” and she aimed a crooked finger indecisively. I assumed she knew by then I was on foot since there weren’t any cars in the parking lot, so I started jogging in the direction she’d indicated.
She was right. It didn’t take long to find the small, four-pump station, which was good since by the time I got there my not-yet-dry jeans were starting to chafe. Also because I was out of my mind with worry over Tyler.
The station was open but deserted at this hour. And it wasn’t the convenience store kind of place that had aisles of snack foods and miscellaneous household supplies and motor oil and beer. Instead there was one lone attendant’s stand in a center island that overlooked all four gas pumps. Behind the glass there was a limited assortment of sundries: cigarettes, condoms, cough drops—that sort of thing. I could see the display rack of individual packets of pain relievers sitting plain as day on the back counter.
Problem was, the attendant was nowhere to be seen.
If I’d wanted breath spray or condoms, I’d have been in luck. I could have busted out the BACK IN FIVE sign that blocked the small opening where people passed their cash and made a run for it. No such luck.
“Hello?” I called out, hoping that the cashier was right around the corner, maybe taking a smoke break or something; and when no one answered, I tried again, louder this time. “Hello!”
I paced nervously, chewing on my lip and then on my fingernail, trying to decide what I should do.
I didn’t want to go back there empty-handed. Tyler needed this medicine.
I went to the glass and pressed my face against it. It was right there. Right in front of me. If I had the balls—or the ovaries, in my case—I’d break the damn glass. I was already on the run from the law, wasn’t I? How much worse could my situation get?
Just one packet of Tylenol or Excedrin or ibuprofen. I wasn’t choosy.
I pounded my fists helplessly against the glass because I knew I’d never do it, even if it had been right where the breath spray was. I wasn’t a thief.
“Hello?” I yelled again, anxiety making my voice crack. “Is anyone here?”
And that’s when it happened.
The display of pain relievers . . .
. . . it moved.
Moved, as in wiggled. Enough that all the packets swayed side to side. A miniature earthquake.
Except it was only the pain reliever rack that was affected. Nothing else. Not the ground beneath my feet or the counters inside the booth or the condoms or the cough drops.
Just the pain relievers I’d been staring at longingly.
Shut. Up.
My eyes widened, and my fists fell to my sides. My throat tightened as I tried to make sense of what I’d seen. I looked behind me to see if anyone else had noticed it, but I was still alone.
All alone.
I turned back.
Nuh-uh . . . not me . . .
It wasn’t . . .
I glanced down at my hands—ordinary, normal hands. No way!
I curled my fingers back into fists and lifted them to the glass, mimicking my previous actions.
Nothing happened. There was nothing but me and the empty booth and all those pain relievers I couldn’t reach.
I stared. I stared hard.
I concentrated.
And then . . .
. . . still nothing.
I banged my fist on the glass, releasing a gust of frustration as I swore under my breath. “Dammit. Dammit!”
All at once the entire pain reliever display shot across the booth and crashed against the glass, scaring the crap out of me.
I jerked away from the explosion, my heart crammed in my throat and my eyes so wide I felt like they’d pop out of my head. “Holy . . .” I gasped. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god . . .”
But there was no one there to see. I checked.
I almost wished there had been. Someone to say, “I saw it too.” Or “Holy crap.” Or “Dude, you did it.”
Somehow, someway, by some freaking miracle I had just managed to move—like levitate or something—that whole entire rack across the attendant booth.
With my new superpowers.
When I finally recovered from what I’d done, when I’d accepted it was real and come to terms with it, and when I realized I’d better get the hell out of there before someone else showed up and figured out I was the one responsible for all that damage, I jumped into action.
It was all there, all the medicine I needed; I just had to shove—fine, break—the BACK IN FIVE sign to get it out of my way. It was a small feat after what I’d accomplished with the display stand, and it only took me a second. Hard to believe the cashier had left this place unattended in the first place.
After I’d filled my pockets with as many packets as I could carry, I laid three twenty-dollar bills on the counter inside, more than enough to pay for what I’d taken and to make up for the mess I’d made. Because, I might not be exactly human, but I certainly wasn’t a thief.
I ran the entire way back, anxious to get out of there before someone spotted me, and even more anxious to get back to Tyler. I stopped running, though, almost tripping over my own feet, the moment the Asplund Motor Inn came into view.
Not because I was winded or because I was no longer in a hurry to get back, but because of the car in the parking lot. The one that hadn’t been there before.
Black. Nice and shiny, polished black.
I felt sick. Not like Tyler, all fevered and nosebleedy, but straight-up, gut-puking sick.
If it hadn’t been for Tyler—Tyler who was still in there, still burning up, probably all because of me—I’d would’ve turned tail and run. Right back to the gas station, past it, and into the woods.
I would have disappeared forever this time.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my fists into the hollows of my sockets, and did my best to come up with some sort of plan. But there was no good plan for how to get Tyler out of there. Not now.
As I passed the office on my way back, the old lady inside met me at the door. “Oh good, you’re back. Nice man’s been waitin’ on you.”
I ignored the woman, my stomach roiling as I kept walking. I glanced toward the black car parked right in front of room #110.
It was empty, I noted. Whoever was here was probably already inside the room. Waiting for me.