Page 60 of Head Under Water

And maybe they’re right, I concede, their reasoning coming at me from all sides. I should be rested when she wakes up—because she will. There’s no reason for me not to get a few hours of sleep until we know more.

In the end, I’m exhausted trying to prove why I deserve to be here. And so, with the promise I’ll be back bright and early, I leave.

I give them all distracted hugs, my head spinning, and make my way to the parking lot. Except, when I get in my car and start driving, I realize I’m not going back to Will’s.

I can’t.

Right now, all I need is to be in the house where I grew up, where I was loved by Margie and by Ruth. I need to sleep in my mom’s bed.

The next morning, I wake to the sounds of someone knocking somewhere in the distance. It takes several seconds for me to process where I am and what the sound is.

By the time I do, the knocking has stopped.

I jolt out of bed, shoving the blanket back, and rush through the house.

When I reach the front door, I peek outside through the small window, searching for the source of the sound. But there’s no one on the porch.

My heart thuds in my ears.

No one comes out here. Mom wouldn’t knock, and the only other people who ever come to the house are at the hospital right now.

Or dead.

My breathing hitches.

In the driveway, there’s a blue truck.

The blue truck…maybe.

My heartbeat stumbles.

The truck is old. Possibly vintage. Baby blue with no back seat.

I can’t see the driver, just the truck idling in the driveway, exhaust clouds fading into the wind behind it.

Part of me is tempted to open the door, to demand to know who he is and what he wants, but I don’t. I can’t. I’m here alone.

With a sudden surge of panic, I think about the back door. Is it locked? Mom never locks any of her doors.

I bolt through the house to the back and twist the lock, resting against it with a heavy breath. Then I check the windows.

By the time I return to the front, the truck is gone. And I’m left with no answers at all.

I dial Mom’s number, and when she picks up, her voice is exhausted.

“Good morning, honey. Are you already on your way?”

“Someone was here,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

Her tone changes. “What do you mean? Who? Where?”

“At your house. I…I came here last night instead of going back to Will’s, and I woke up to a man in a blue truck knocking on the front door. Er, someone knocking, anyway. It could’ve been a woman, I guess. I didn’t see the driver. By the time I got out of bed, they were already back in their truck. They’re gone now.”

“Don’t answer it if he comes back,” Mom says, and her voice is sterner than I’ve heard in a long time. She sounds…scared.

“You know who it was?”

“No, but I don’t like it. Don’t answer the door while you’re there alone. Promise me.”