Page 11 of 72 Hours of You

I can feel a scream clawing at my throat, thrashing to get out.

I throw off my covers and leap out of bed. “I’m going for a run!”

“I’ll alert CNN!” Jules shouts back.

Five

FORWARD. FORWARD. FORWARD. There is no other direction when you’re running. There is only what’s ahead. My blue Sauconys hit the pavement over and over in a monotonous rhythm. Keep going. Don’t look back. Keep going.

My legs start to burn, hot and prickly. I glance at my Apple Watch. I’m doing a six-minute mile, but I don’t slow down. I just go harder, faster.

It’s that weird time of day when school’s over but the adults are still at work so no one’s really out. The tree-lined streets are quiet. Like maybe if I tried, I could imagine there had been some sort of mass extinction and I was the only one left on earth.

I keep running, forcing my legs to carry me farther and farther from home.

There’s this thing that I do sometimes. A stupid thing. I don’t do it very often, but every once in a while something comes over me, and I feel like if I don’t do it I’m going to float away. Like I just have to, or I’ll explode into myself. Like right now.

The sidewalk stretches on for a while. I could do it now. I close my eyes. But I keep running, even faster. I don’t throw my arms out like wings or anything. I’m not a fucking idiot. But I do let my hands open, just slightly, to feel the wind between my fingers.

Faster. Faster.

My feet hit the ground in solid, even strokes, exactly like we practiced when I was still on the track team. When I was still captain. But I don’t think about that. I just keep my eyes closed and think about the wind. I could be anywhere right now. On any planet. In the darkness of my mind with the air blowing over my face, there is no up or down. No sky. No ground. There’s just me. Anything could happen.

It’s terrifying—not seeing what’s coming next—but it also feels so fucking good.

I usually only do it for a couple of seconds. Play chicken with myself like this. But today, I push it. Push it hard enough to stop seeing Liam’s curly black head ducking into that car with Cameron. To erase Ms. Jegstrup knocking into her coffee. To get their names out of my head.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Si—

My shoe hits something and I trip. And then the air that was in my fingers and in my hair is underneath me too. I’m off the ground. Flying. And for a second I think, This must be what it feels like.

“JESUS, THAT’S A LOT OF BLOOD,” a voice says. The voice sounds worried. But it also sounds confident. And warm. Like a honey voice. I want to poke my finger in the voice.

I open my eyes. “My head hurt.” Huh. That sentence sounds weird. “My head hurt,” I try again. Still weird. But why?

“You hit your head. Really hard,” the voice says.

The voice is a boy. He is golden. He also looks like honey. I stick my finger out and poke him in his honey dimple. Squish.

He grabs my wrist. Gently. Nicely. A nice grab. Nice fingers. “Hello, honey boy,” I say. Honey boy. I giggle.

Honey boy has sweat on his forehead. Little honey beads.

“I think you’re concussed.”

He pulls out a phone. I smack it out of his hands. “Who’re you calling, honey boy?”

Honey boy looks panicked but also like he might smile. “I’m googling the nearest hospital. Shit, it’s like forty-five minutes away.”

Hospital.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

My brain snaps back together and I sit up. “Oh Jesus.” I put my hand on my head. It’s warm and sticky and, shit, that is definitely a little—I look at my crimson fingertips—a maybe-not-so-little river of blood trickling down my forehead.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Just relax. I’m taking care of it.” I look up and shit fuck shit again because “honey boy” is Peter. This is humiliating. I want to dissolve into a puddle and seep into the sewage grate.

He puts his phone back in his pocket and runs his hands through his honey-colored (Jesus Christ) hair. “Do you think you can stand? I’m going to drive you to the hospital.”