these things. Reaching out with my free hand, I pinch his arm. It feels solid and real. The despair that had been crushing me lifts just a bit.
“Focus, Lennie,” Smith says, bringing my gaze back up to his face. “We can stay, but I’ve been thinking. . . . You know how I told Turlington you needed to go home and get some shine to grant more wishes?”
“Yeah.” I nod and then force a watery smile. “You’re so full of shit.”
“But what if I wasn’t?” Smith replies. “Couldn’t you get someone to wish that all the wishes from last night were unwished or something? You could at least try. Or, I don’t know, maybe you should ask your uncles what to do.”
“I thought you didn’t trust them to not lock us all in the basement?”
“That was before I saw this.” He sweeps a hand out indicating Michaela’s house. “It’s bigger than I thought. There’s no way you can fit all of this in your basement. Your uncles are our only move at this point.”
He’s right. Of course, he’s right. And I probably shouldn’t have left my house until I fully understood this thing.
“That might be the best way to help Larry . . . and everyone else.” Smith adds softly, pushing his advantage.
“Okay,” I nod. “Okay.”
Awkwardly I contort until I can place my free hand against Larry’s cheek. He feels hot to the touch. I look up at Seanie. “Let him lie down somewhere. Get him something cold to drink. Maybe a cool washcloth too. Or a warm one. I don’t know. Ask someone. Tell everyone to be nice to him and if anyone tries to mess with him, well, tell them I’ll wish ’em an endless lifetime of gym classes with Mr. Proler. Got it?”
Seanie nods.
I nod back and it feels official. Like an oath.
I keep my hand pressed against Larry. “It’ll be okay,” I promise him, even though he’s unconscious and can’t hear me. As Seanie grabs Larry beneath the armpits and pulls him from the car, I make another promise, this one to myself: I will do everything in my power to make sure it isn’t a lie.
Next time everything will really and truly be okay.
WON’T GO WELL
We ride in shell-shocked silence. The dashboard clock says it’s 12:46 p.m. It seems unbelievable that this day still has so many hours left in it. I close my eyes, exhausted. I want nothing more than to go home and crawl under my covers.
“So,” Dyl pipes up from the backseat. “I was dead, huh?”
From our connected hands I feel a tremor go through Smith. I stare out my window, unable to look at him or Dylan.
“Yeah,” Smith finally answers after clearing his throat a few times. “You were . . .”
“Dead,” Dyl helpfully finishes for him. “Seanie said it was a few months ago.”
“Helpful of him,” Smith mutters.
Dyl ignores this.
“Seems like a long time to be dead and then, ta-da, be somehow back alive again. I mean, I guess anytime you’re dead it’s weird to suddenly not be dead, but you’d think it’d be better for it to happen closer to the time of death so you’re not, like, a rotting stinking decaying zombie.”
“You’re not a zombie and you’re not decaying,” Smith snaps at her.
“No,” she agrees in a soft voice, which immediately makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The soft voice is almost always a precursor to the screeching loud voice. “But I do have these weird lines all over me and I feel kind of achy. What happened to me?”
I expect Smith to dodge the question. Instead he goes with a blatant lie. “Car accident. Bad one.”
I stifle a groan, but Smith must know what I’m thinking ’cause he glares at me, making it clear he wants me to keep my mouth shut.
Dyl, meanwhile, keeps asking questions. “Was I driving or was it someone else? Was it a drinking thing? Were you or Lennie in the car? What—”
Smith cuts her off. “You were alone. It wasn’t your fault. The other guy . . .” Smith stops and sighs. “It’s hard to talk about, Dyl. Could you just . . . You’re here, okay? You’re alive. Let’s focus on that.”
Dyl was always quick to argue and never hesitated to push back against Smith when she felt he was bossy or full of shit. To my surprise, though, she says nothing, and a strained silence fills the entire car.
It’s a relief when we pull