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"Angel, you're just along for the ride. I'm taking care of this." She offered what I think was supposed to be an encouraging smile that ignited me.
My arms wrapped tighter over him. I looked down at his sallow face and offered the only thing I could: my word. "I'll fix this, I swear." I didn't have anything left, but there was something I had to do. For him. It was a stupid promise and impossible to keep and I had no idea how I would even try, but then . . . something happened.
There was noise. A loud banging. Thump, thump, thump. Then, Avery was talking. I couldn't understand anything she was saying. Once my ears caught the beat coming from the radio, I couldn't hear anything else. I wanted to stop her from saying whatever the hell it was, stop the irritating music, stop the world-but couldn't think of what to do to make that happen.
Another impatient thump, coupled with a familiar bellow. "I know you're in there!" It was coming from the door.
The voice of Deanna. Her name was security. Deanna!
She would know what to do. She would help. I wanted to jump and scream, and shout at her to look around, to explain to me what was happening, but none of that made it to the surface.
I could only hold him.
Avery must have opened the door, because suddenly Deanna was inside the room and they were talking-rambling actually-but it all sounded like mumbling over the blood pumping in my ears and the music on the radio.
After Deanna's arm dropped from my shoulder, I realized she had been touching me. Avery was saying something again. It sounded like a cough. I threw up on Deanna's feet.
Through whatever was going on: the noise and voices, the indifferent rap music, the cruel light that showed how green he'd become, how still and lifeless . . . something else happened.
It was only my mind playing tricks on me, but it felt so real-it anchored me in the moment. My magician, my Houdini-the man who could take any broken thing I gave him and make it right-opened his eyes!
It wasn't real.
It was just my mind trying to comfort me by making me see the thing I wanted most, but the relief of that lie helped me focus. So when his lips seemed to move, I knew to lean in and pressed my ear to his mouth.
He magically whispered a single word-the word that had been evading me in my search for what to do. The one I couldn't find before or after I realized it was him on the floor of my room and not just a pile of dirty laundry. My chest burst open. I think I screamed, because suddenly my voice was the only sound to be heard.
I don't know how I got to my feet. I don't remember seeing Avery or Deanna as I opened the door. I wasn't consciously moving. I just flew. I might have been screaming the whole time, I don't know, but I remember the hot, predawn air grazing my skin as I hammered on every door I saw on my way out to the road. It was early-only a hint of pink was on the horizon. I scrambled to the roadside, thorns and pebbles digging into my feet, but it didn't matter.
Waving my arms, frantic, I kept screaming-begging for someone to come. Demanding help. It was like the second I heard the word, I couldn't stop repeating it.
Help, help, help, help, help, HELP!!!
A brown station wagon was on the road. I thought I saw it slow down, but it didn't stop. Then, a motorcycle, too. And another car-a tan one-I flew over the yellow line into the far lane, still screaming Jakes' plea.
"HELP!" It was my mantra. The one thing I needed, the only thing I could try to give Jake, even though it was too late.
The car screeched and swerved. And then my hands were on the hood, and then I was flying. Floating. The sky became the ground. Cacti sprouted from brown plumes.
And I was burning.
Still screaming.
+++
My default state in this interview room: my face, coated in snot and tears.
"Miss Patel, did you say you saw your former guardian, Deanna Midler that night?" Tight Bun Tara's face holds a strange expression beyond her squared spectacles.
My throat is too clogged with emotion to clarify, so I nod.
"And you clearly recall leaving the motel room?" Tara continues.
"That's enough for now." Mister Brandon murmurs. "Take a deep breath. Breathe in the blue calm . . . exhale. In with the good, out with the bad."
While I work to calm this most recent emotional upheaval, my unhelpful lawyer announces the obvious to the room: "She's too worked up."
I believe he uses the word hysterical in his next sentence. Says I should be sent back to my bunk where I can take the remainder of the day to rest and recover from the terrible stress of this conversation. Hearing the lame excuses has me rolling my eyes. Yes, it's difficult-but I don't want to stop.
