In the hallway, he leaned against the cold marble balustrade, and sunk to the floor, dropping his head into his hands. Back in Newport Beach, his emotions had been in tight control for so long—but now they flew rabid and reckless.
Those emotions had snuffed the life out of Drew, who even now grew colder in the backseat of the stolen car. And what would Michael do about that! Send a body bag to Drew’s parents, with his deepest apologies? Somehow, Michael doubted Hallmark had a sentiment for “Sorry I killed your son.”
From beyond the closed doors, Michael could hear the cries of pain fade away. What was Lourdes doing? he wondered. Putting them to sleep? Was she regulating strained hearts and administering some sort of psychic anesthesia?
At least she could give them respite from their pain, but for Michael there was no such relief.
“Something wrong?”
Michael looked up to see someone leaning against a column a few yards down the hall. Michael pointed to the closed door of Dillon’s little operating room. “Take a look in that madhouse, and ask me again.”
“I was asking about you.”
“Nothing wrong with me a nice long coma couldn’t cure.”
The stranger took a step closer, whistling a tune that seemed familiar, but Michael could not quite place it.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
Then the stranger sat down beside him. “No one with that much trouble in their eyes can be quiet for long.”
Michael was about to get up and leave, when the stranger began to whistle that tune again. It frustrated Michael that he couldn’t quite place it. He turned and for the first time really saw the stranger’s face. There was something odd about it. His curiosity kept him from leaving.
“No point in talking,” said Michael. “Thanks anyway.”
“Poor Michael,” mocked the stranger. “The other shards won’t let you play.”
Michael bristled. “Who the hell are you, and how do you know my name?”
“Tory and Winston speak of you so often, I feel as if I already know you. Although you seem far less shifty than they made you out to be.”
“Shifty? They said I’m shifty?”
The stranger sat beside him. “Deeply troubled.”
Michael felt a seed of anger, and resentment toward the others begin to take root. And he let it, finding that the resentment felt good. “Yeah, well, they’re the ones who are troubled. Bottomless pits, if you ask me.”
“Perhaps they’re not the friends you think they are.”
Michael studied the stranger, trying to divine what he was getting at, but he only grinned, as if he were the one with Michael’s best interests at heart.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Michael studied the face a moment longer, until he finally realized what had seemed so strange. “What are you anyway?” Michael asked. “A guy or girl?”
The stranger shrugged. “Which do you prefer?”
Michael had to laugh at that. “Neither,” he said.
“Tell me your troubles. Maybe I can bring you some peace.”
And although Michael hadn’t cared to discuss it, he found himself spilling his guts into the patient ears of this strange new friend.
In the crowded space of the Gothic Study, Dillon, Tory, Lourdes, and Winston worked their curious magic. Dillon set broken bones, and sent the most malignant of tumors into spontaneous remission, while Lourdes doused pain, and steadied the rhythms of failing hearts. Tory set up one sterile field after another, while Winston regenerated organs, limbs, and nerve pathways that had, until now, been irretrievably lost.
The patients began this triage in terror and confusion, but as the numbers of the healed increased, the fear was subjugated by astonishment. Restored patients became an awed audience, watching as the four worked their wonders on the rest.
It was over in less than an hour, and when they were done, the room was a joyous gathering of healthy people.
The doors were swung open wide to let them out.
“But we don’t want to go!” they clamored. “We want to stay here. With you . . . with all of you!” And so the Happy Campers at the door led them away, to find them all a place in Dillon’s perfect order.
Winston, Lourdes, and Tory had expected to find nothing but misery once they found Dillon—and although he did show them misery, he had also shown them misery’s end. As the last of the new recruits left the room, Michael stepped in, looking pale and oppressed, with Okoya lingering in the shadows, just beyond the door.
Michael opened his mouth to say something, but Lourdes cut him off.
“Michael, it was incredible,” she said, throwing her arms around him. “You missed everything!”
“I knew I affected people, but it was never like that!” said Winston. “The things I was able to do in there . . .”
“It’s because we’re together,” suggested Tory. “Together we’re greater than the sum of our parts.”
The others took a moment to consider this, dazzled by the magnitude of the thought. How great were they, really? How much greater could they become?
Dillon, however, remained unimpressed. “This was just one day’s work. There’ll be more tomorrow,” he said, as he straightened out chairs and benches.
“But why?” Tory asked. “Why will there be more? Why are we doing this?”
“Because we can.” offered Lourdes.
“Not because we can,” said Dillon. “But because we have to . . . . There’s so much I need to tell you, I don’t know where to start.”
And then, finally, Michael forced out what he had been trying to say since he had ventured into the room. “I know where to start,” he said. There was a lump in his throat, and the words came out muted. “Okoya and I just brought a friend of mine in from the car . . .”
“Oh no . . . Drew!” gasped Lourdes.
“Before we do anything,” Michael said, “I want to give him a decent burial.”
Dillon regarded Michael curiously. “Burial?”
“Isn’t that what you normally do with dead people?” Michael spat out.
“No,” said Dillon. “Actually, it’s not.”
Running! Sprinting!
A nameless runner charging backward through a blind race.
He could not remember the moment before—all he could do. was feel the motion as he moved across an impossible distance. The space around him stretched like a piece of elastic, until it seemed like . . . a tunnel. He was running backward through a tunnel. The journey lasted only a moment longer, and then he awoke with a single thought in his mind, so powerful that he had to speak aloud. It was who he was. It was his name.
“Drew Camden!” The sound of his own voice woke him, his mind charged and fully alert. He opened his eyes to find himself in the soft light of a strange, octagonal room. The ceiling was inlaid gold, the four-poster bed on which he lay was gold, and soft golden light poured in through windows covered with delicately patterned grills.
“Welcome to the Celestial Suite.”
The voice was unfamiliar. Drew sat up, but the speaker had left. Drew only caught a flicker of his red hair as he exited, on his way down the stairs.
But Michael was there, standing and staring.
A pang of regret—a pang of sorrow—came to Drew as he recalled the last time they had seen each other, but he chose not to face that. Not now.
“It’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven,” said Drew, throwing his gaze around the Celestial Suite.