Page 15

She nods as she timidly steps into the room. “Call me Frankie, please.”

Her eyes are a light pink shade, closer to bubblegum than baby pink, as they dart around the room, almost avoiding meeting mine. I think she’s a siren. My suspicion is confirmed when the light catches the shimmery teal color along the gills on the side of her neck.

“What brings you to the hospital? Not new business, I hope.” A nervous chuckle escapes me, and when she doesn’t laugh with me, my stomach turns. “Oh god.”

Frankie chews on the inside of her cheek. “Yes, I have a pickup at the morgue. But I also wanted to…” she trails off as she starts digging through the oversized purse against her hip, “leave this.” She pulls out a business card and places it on the nightstand.

Confusion and rage swirl together as they heat the blood in my veins. The absolute fucking nerve of this woman. I place a protective hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “Ezra’s in a coma, Frankie, not dead. I don’t appreciate the presumption that we’ll be needing your services at the end of this road.”

“Hm? Oh,” she quickly corrects with wide eyes. “Oh no. Ezra and I talked about an exhibit I saw at the button museum in Connecticut. They wanted to know more about it.” When I continue to stare at her blankly, she adds, “The card has my email on it.”

“Ah. Got it.” I feel foolish enough that blood is crawling up my neck and filling my cheeks, but what else was I supposed to think when the town’s new undertaker drops her card next to my comatose friend? Frankie doesn’t seem like she meant any harm, though, so I chalk it up to her being socially awkward. “Well, good luck with your…” I certainly didn’t think this sentence through, “appointment.”

She nods with her gaze on the wall as she backs out of the room, her clogs clacking down the long hall until the sound fades as she nears the elevator.

Abe and I stay with Ezra long enough for the attending doctor to come in and provide an update that nothing has changed with Ezra’s brain scans. We leave with my shoulders hunched in defeat. What if we do end up needing Frankie’s services because Ezra never wakes up? How long is too long to keep them stuck here, tethered to this form of existence, and are they desperate for us to just let them go?

I grow to hate Abe (a little) less throughout the day as he continues to hand me bottles of water and carb-filled snacks whenever I start to look tired. My pickle popcorn drawer is once again filled to the brim, though I have no idea how he restocked it when he hasn’t left my side since he climbed out of his charging box that first day.

He’s no Ezra, but he’s been anticipating my needs in a way I never would’ve expected from a heartless machine. It’s a pleasant surprise. A silver lining along the rocky edges of a crap heap.

Beverly goes through my schedule for the following week, confirms the town meeting she set up at the bed-and-breakfast, and provides a list of names I need to call back by end of day tomorrow. As she’s leaving my office, I notice the clock has hit ten past six. Abe seems to notice it at the same time because he carefully closes my laptop and covers my hand with his. “You’re struggling to stay awake, Emma. That’s enough work for today.”

I let out a deep breath, and in a turn of events no one could’ve anticipated, I don’t fight him on it. “Okay.” I haphazardly sweep the items atop my desk into my purse with one arm and struggle to haul myself out of my chair. Standing up for the first time in hours is a humbling experience for someone in their forties. It tells you a lot about your mobility, and frankly, I find the unsolicited dump of information quite rude.

“Come,” Abe says with an arm extended.

I gaze a little too long at that arm, outstretched and thick with muscle. I can even see a vein traveling down the length of his forearm through his little superhero jumpsuit. It’s not a real vein, but the saliva filling my mouth can’t tell the difference. What would he do if I just fell into that embrace he’s offering? If I tipped right over in the direction of his massive chest, would he catch me? Would he keep me wrapped in his arms out of concern I’m about to faint? And what’s even under that jumpsuit of his? Is it a jumpsuit or a unitard? Or a fitted onesie? How are those three things distinguished in the world of fashion? What does he look like beneath––

“Emma?” Abe’s arm is no longer reaching for me. It’s hanging at his side, which makes me wonder how deep my fall down that particular rabbit hole was.

“Yeah.” I offer no explanation as I follow him down the empty halls of the building. Ziggy left hours ago, saying he wanted to chase the local rats behind the bakery. Given the darkened offices of town hall, it seems everyone else decided to leave early with him.

We make it out onto the sidewalk before I realize I left my phone inside. “Can you go in and grab it?” I ask Abe. “I think it might be next to the lamp, connected to the charger.”

He looks reluctant, but when I shoot him an overly dramatic pout, he caves. Might my robot bodyguard be developing a bit of a crush? I wouldn’t blame him. I’m the whole feast with a week’s worth of leftovers. But that’s not something a robot can do. He might be programmed to serve my every need and detect a level of exhaustion in me so severe it makes him more willing to do me favors, but develop a crush? No.

“Do not move from this spot,” he warns as he scans our surroundings. “I’ll be right back.”

To keep my heavy eyelids from falling closed, I hum the tune of “Let My Love Open the Door,” by Pete Townshend, a quintessential eighties hit, and dance in place without moving my feet.

I get so into the song I don’t even hear the van pull up next to me, or the door sliding open. Two hands clamp down on my upper arms as two more wrap around my calves, hauling me sideways. My purse falls from my grasp, and its contents spill onto the cement as I scream and kick and try to pull myself free.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” one of the men says as his grip on my upper arms tightens to the point of pain.

“Let me go!”

They’re too strong. How are they so strong? If I had the ability to focus on anything, I could summon one or all the elements to get me out of this, but panic has me in a chokehold as I inch closer to the inside of the van. If they get me in there and drive off, there’s a good chance I won’t survive. That’s what I remember from the stranger danger campaigns of my youth, anyway.

There’s a commotion from somewhere behind us, and suddenly my lower half is released, and my knees hit the ground hard.

Pain radiates up my spine as a loud thud pulls my attention to the crumpled body several feet away.

Did Abe throw him? How’d he end up way over there?

The second guy, the one who called me a bitch, is dangling by his throat, locked in Abe’s steel grip. He’s clawing at Abe’s wrist, unable to beg for his life, but the fear in his eyes communicates it clearly.

“Did you leave the note?” Abe asks through gritted teeth, spraying the guy’s chin with spit.