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‘His fever has peaked,’ a man’s voice says. ‘If it doesn’t drop, we’ll need to put him under a cold shower.’
Something cool slides over my forehead, and it feels damn good, easing some of the pain. I try to open my eyes, but my lashes feel crusty and stuck.
The world lurches. I find myself sitting, and pills are pressed into my mouth, then a glass. Cold water spills down my throat, making me cough and hack.
Fever’s dropping, the woman’s voice says.
That’s good news, the man says, and I wonder who he is.
Both voices sound familiar, though, so I relax. Friends. Family. My body is heavy on the mattress, my head resting on a pillow.
I’m in a bed. My bed. I feel as if I’m sinking through the mattress, falling down deep, into darkness.
I think I see Mom. She’s whispering something to me, but I can’t make out the words. Her hand is on my head, stroking my hair, and God, I won’t wanna admit it to anyone, but I’ve missed her so much.
Yet before I can say anything to her—ask why she left, how she could do it—she’s gone once more, and the darkness thickens.
When I resurface, my mind is clearer. Slowly, details emerge. The dimness of my bedroom, the closet, photos of the football team on the walls. Was Mom really here?
No, just a dream. I lift my hand to rub my gummy eyes, and the effort leaves me breathless.
Fuck. What’s wrong with me? What happened? I can hardly remember how I ended up in bed.
I should get up. Find my brothers.
I roll on my back, and the ceiling starts spinning in lazy circles. Dizzy, I close my eyes again.
When I reopen them, Tessa is there.
“You’re sick,” she tells me, sitting by my side, holding my hand between hers. She says I was running a high fever, but now I’m better. The antibiotics are working.
Tessa. She’s here, always here. She’s the only sharp, brightly focused point, the only constant. She gives sense to the nightmarish jumble of images and sounds.
As I sleep, because sleeping seems to be the only thing I do all day, I think I hear Dad’s voice, and I blink.
He’s there, standing by my bed, his hair grown shaggy, hanging around his lined face. He’s forty-two, but looks over sixty these days. He scratches at his three-day beard with dirty nails and sighs.
“Pestilence,” he mutters. “Need to cleanse this house from sin and misfortune. Burn everything. Erase everything, liberate the soul.” He leans closer to me. “I can smell the disease on you. Smell pain and sorrow. I can help you. I can help all of us past the sky gate. Let us be free.”
I blink once, twice, and he’s gone. “Dad?” I call out, my voice a scratchy whisper. “Dad? Are you there?”
I carefully push myself into a sitting position. The room tilts sharply, and I grab for something not to fall. “Fuck.”
“Hey.” Zane appears in my line of vision, tilting together with the room and everything in it. He makes a grab for me and eases me back on the pillows. “What are you doing, fucker? No getting up yet.”
I figured as much myself. I lie panting, still searching the room with my eyes. “My dad.”
“What about him?” Zane frowns at me and leans against my closet, arms folded over his chest. He’s wearing a black Deathmoth T-shirt, the white letters showing through his unzipped jacket.
“Has he been here?”
His frown deepens. “Here, in this room?” He looks at the door, then back at me. “You were asleep for a couple of hours. I was in the kitchen with Dakota and your brothers. I didn’t see or hear anyone entering the house.”
I chew on this. Another dream, then.
I swallow the bitterness welling in my throat and let out a long breath. “If my dad comes home…”
“Does he have a key?” Zane doesn’t look happy about this.
