over my mouth. Another hand spins me around so I can see who it is.
Nick.
Lips flat.
Eyes angry.
To his right is Leslie Evelyn. To his left is Dr. Wagner, a needle and syringe in his hand. A bead of liquid quivers on the needle’s tip before he jabs it into my upper arm.
Everything instantly goes woozy. Nick’s face. Leslie’s face. Dr. Wagner’s face. All of them blur and waver like a TV on the fritz.
I gasp.
I let out another scream.
Loud and pitiable and streaked with terror.
It careens down the hall, echoing off the walls, so that I’m still hearing it when everything fades to nothingness.
ONE DAY LATER
44
I dream of my family in Central Park, standing in the middle of Bow Bridge.
This time, I’m with them.
So is George.
It’s just the five of us on the bridge, looking at our reflections in the moonlit water below. A slight breeze blows through the park, forming ripples on the water and making our faces look like funhouse-mirror versions of their true selves.
I stare at my reflection, marveling at how it wobbles and wavers. Then I look at the reflections of the others and notice something strange.
Everyone is holding a knife.
Everyone but me.
I turn away from the water and face them. My family. My gargoyle.
They raise their knives.
“You don’t belong here,” my father says.
“Run,” my mother says.
“Run away as fast as you can,” Jane says.
George says nothing. He simply watches with stoic stone eyes as my family lurches forward and begins to stab me.
TWO DAYS LATER
45
I wake slowly. Like a swimmer uncertain about surfacing, pulled against my will from dark waters. Even after I regain consciousness, sleep lingers. A fog curling through me, languorous and thick.
My eyes stay closed. My body feels heavy. So heavy.
Although there’s pain in my abdomen, it’s distant, like a fire on the other side of the room. Just close enough that I can feel its heat.
Soon my eyelids move, flickering, fluttering, opening to the sight of a hospital room.
The same one as before.
No windows. Chair in the corner. Monet hanging from the white wall.
Despite the fog in my head, I know exactly where I am.
The only thing I don’t know is what will happen to me next and what’s already happened.
My body refuses to move, no matter how much I try. The fog is too heavy. My legs are useless. My arms are the same. Only my right hand moves—a weak flop against my side.
Turning my head is the most movement I can muster. A slow turn to the left lets me see the IV stand by the bed, its thin plastic tube snaking into my hand.
I can also tell that the bandage around my head is gone. My hair slides freely across the pillow when I roll my head in the opposite direction. That’s where the photo of my family sits, my wan reflection visible in the cracked frame.
The sight of that pale face sliced into a dozen slivers causes my right hand to twitch. To my surprise, I can lift it. Not much. Just enough to get it to flop onto my stomach.
I move my hand across the hospital gown. Beneath the paper-thin fabric is a slight bump where a bandage sits. I can feel it on the upper left side of my abdomen, slightly below my breast. Touching it sends pain flashing through my body, cutting the fog enough for me to really feel it. Like a lightning strike.
With the pain comes panic. A confused horror in which I know something is wrong but I can’t tell what it is.
My hand keeps moving down my side, slow and trembling. Just to the left of my navel is a different dreadful rise. Another bandage.
More pain.
More panic.
More smoothing my hand over my stomach, fingers probing, searching for yet another bandage.
I find it in the center of my lower abdomen, several inches below my navel. It’s longer than the others. The pain gets worse when I press down on it. A gasp-inducing flare.
What did you do to me?
I think it more than say it. My voice is a dry croak, barely audible in the room’s dim silence. But in my head it’s a full-throated sob.
At my stomach, the pain burns with more intensity. This fire is no longer distant. It’s here. Roaring across my gut. I clutch it with my one working hand. My thoughts continue to scream. My weakling voice can only moan.
Outside the room, someone hears me.
It’s Bernard, who rushes in, his eyes no longer kind. When he glances