The scent of mesquite wafted through the air. Mr. Benson must have fired up his grill. She breathed deep without the aid of an oxygen tank. A truly wonderful experience, until her belly twisted with hunger. Ugh. She needed breakfast. Correction: she needed fourth breakfast. Since waking in the hospital with tubes everywhere, she’d experienced bottomless pit hunger without gaining a pound.
In an effort to clog said pit, Cookie had consumed her weight in powdered donuts, the aforementioned Cheetos, and mint chip cookies earlier. Guess she’d have to keep trying.
Two butterflies fluttered past and—Whoa! They did not have human faces. Did they?
The mutant insects circled back, coming closer, and Cookie sucked in a breath. They did! Their very human-looking mouths moved as if speaking, but she detected no sounds. When she panicked and waved her hand through the air, her fingers disrupted their images.
They’d been nothing but mist?
Her stomach roiled. What did that mean? Was she asleep or insane?
She chanced a glimpse at Pearl Jean. “Did you see the butterflies?”
The other woman wrinkled her brow. “What butterflies?”
Maybe Cookie should start taking her medication again? “Never mind,” she muttered.
“No, not never mind.” Her friend jerked the wheel of her scooter to avoid a rock. “I’ve been noticing some strange happenings around here, and I think we should discuss them.”
Uh-oh. Pearl Jean must want answers about Cookie’s more personal changes. Not ready. She shrank into herself, as if becoming a smaller visual target might stop the conversation mid-track. “Let’s agree that unusual things have been happening and leave it at that, okay? Please?”
“Save your pleas. This is not okay. You recovered from major surgery in a matter of weeks.” The words spewed from Pearl Jean. “You don’t even have a scar. Six months ago, your sable hair reached your shoulders. Now half the strands are pink and they reach the middle of your back. A length you’ve grown twice! Yes, I know you shaved your head the other day. Before, your eyes were gunmetal gray. Now, they’re green with only specks of gray, and plants miraculously flourish in your presence. So? What’s going on?”
Every accusation hit her like a punch. Her friend didn’t even know the half of it. Without her medication—a supposed death sentence for someone in her situation—she had thrived.
Maintaining a neutral expression was difficult, but she managed it. “Here’s an idea. You’re finally fully senile?”
“Oh! And you always smell like fresh-cut roses, especially when you sweat. It’s nauseating.”
“I’m wearing too much Chantel N°5?”
“Don’t get cute with me, hon. You might look like your avatars with those big round eyes and bigger red lips, but you’ve got darkness in you, and it’s only intensified since your surgery. No,” she interjected when Cookie opened her mouth to respond. “Don’t tell me I’m imagining this stuff. Tell me what the new heart has done to my best friend.”
She wanted to. She did. A couple hundred times, she’d almost done it. But what if someone listened to their conversation? Yesterday morning she’d mentioned a jones for pancakes with homemade strawberry jelly. By noon, ads for pancakes and special jellies were popping up on every website she visited.
Call her a conspiracy nut, but spies were everywhere, eavesdropping always. If word about her changes ever spread, she might end up imprisoned in a government lab. One of the many reasons she’d skipped her last few medical checkups. Sticking with silence struck her as the best option.
Return to me.
Cookie gave an involuntary jolt. The deep, husky voice had drifted through her head, seeming to rise from a long-buried memory. That timbre...more sensual than a caress.
This wasn’t the first time she’d heard those three little words. Like every time before, she yearned to obey. But return where? And why? How? Who was the speaker?
Feeling as if she were being watched again, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Soft, lush grass greeted her. Trees with swaying limbs. The farmhouse remained in view, an adorable travesty of peeling paint and broken boards she still hadn’t gotten around to fixing. The perfect metaphor for her old life. Neglected, forgotten, and beaten to heck by storms.
Everything looked well, no one openly following her. But. Dude. Unease skittered down her spine.
She needed to shake this stupid paranoia, and fast.
“Pay attention to me,” Pearl Jean snapped. “What do you know about the donor?”
Right. “Not much,” she admitted. “I’m told she was my age and involved in some kind of accident. The family doesn’t want to have contact with any of the