A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,121

seat and crumpled to the floor.

“Bronwyn!” Emma cried, and leapt down next to her.

If any of the other people in the subway car had seen, they pretended they hadn’t.

“Is she okay?” Enoch said.

“I don’t know,” said Emma. She slapped Bronwyn’s cheek lightly and repeated her name until her eyes blinked open again.

“Fellows, I think—Rats, I should have mentioned this earlier.” Bronwyn winced. Raised the hem of her shirt. She was bleeding from her torso.

“Bronwyn!” said Emma. “My God!”

“The man with the gun . . . I think he shot me. Don’t worry, though. Not with a bullet.” Bronwyn opened her palm to show us a small dart, tipped now with her own blood.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I said.

“We needed to get out of there quickly. And I thought I was strong enough to overcome whatever he’d shot me with. But apparently . . .”

Her head lolled to the side and she passed out.

We weren’t looking for a loop. At that moment, we wanted anything but to find a loop. All that was in our minds was getting Bronwyn to a hospital. We jumped out of the train at the next stop, hardly even looking to see where we were, and climbed the steps out of the subway station. Lilly held on to Millard’s arm, and Emma, Noor, and I helped prop up Bronwyn, who was weak but still conscious, as she shuffled heavily up the steps and along the sidewalk. We were in Manhattan now, and the buildings were taller, the sidewalks bustling.

I dug out my phone to call 911. Enoch approached people on the street shouting, “Hospital! Where’s a hospital?” This turned out to be an effective strategy. We were pointed down a particular street by a kind, concerned lady who hustled us in the right direction, asking after Bronwyn. Of course, we didn’t want to tell her anything, didn’t want her following us into the emergency room or asking our names (I was already imagining having to bring in an ymbryne to memory-wipe her . . . and the doctors and nurses), so we pretended we’d been joking about the injury and after a block she stormed off, understandably angry.

The hospital was just ahead; I could see the sign hanging from a building a block away. And then the sweetest, richest smell of cooking food hit my nose, and my steps began to slow.

“Do you smell that?” said Enoch. “That’s rosemary toast and goose liver pâté!”

“No way,” said Emma. “It’s shepherd’s pie.”

Our momentum was waning.

“I’d know that smell anywhere,” said Noor. “Dosas. Paneer masala dosas.”

“What are you guys talking about?” said Lilly. “And why are you stopping?”

“She’s right, we have to get Bronwyn to a doctor,” said Millard. “Although that might be the most aromatic coq au vin I’ve ever laid nostrils on . . .”

Our progress had been completely arrested. We were standing in front of a storefront with drawn shades that might have been a restaurant, though there was no sign for one—just a placard that read OPEN ALWAYS and ALL ARE WELCOME.

“You know, I feel okay,” Bronwyn said. “A bit peckish, though, now that you mention it.”

She didn’t seem particularly okay—her speech was slurred, and she was still leaning heavily on our arms—but the part of my brain that registered this seemed to be wrapped in cotton.

“She’s bleeding!” Emma said. “And the hospital is right there.”

Bronwyn looked down at her shirt. “Not bleeding much,” she said, though the patch of red appeared to be spreading.

There were two desires at war inside me. One was a voice shouting, Go to the hospital, dumbass! but I could barely hear it over the other voice, which sounded weirdly like my dad’s. It was insisting, in this peppy, dorky way, that it was getting near dinnertime and shouldn’t we try New York food while we’re here, and goshdarnit, why don’t we just stop in for dinner real quick?

We all seemed to agree except Lilly and Emma, but even their objections were starting to fade.

I pushed the door open and ushered everyone inside. It was indeed a restaurant: a small old place with checkered tablecloths and cane-backed chairs and a soda fountain along one wall. Behind the counter stood a waitress in an apron and a paper hat, and she was smiling like she’d been waiting for us all day. We were the only ones there.

“You kids look hungry!” she said, bouncing on her heels.

“Oh, we are,” said Bronwyn.

The waitress didn’t seem to notice the blood on Bronwyn’s shirt.