“Time to wake up, Delaney,” Myra said from next to me. “We’re here. Come back to us.”
Fingers brushed my cheek gently, then stroked back over my hair. Myra, I thought. Maybe Jean too—petting the top of my head like I was a nervous cat she was trying to comfort.
“Hey, Delaney.” Jean sounded like she was trying to talk a cat out from under the car or refrigerator. “Wake up, sister.”
I pushed at my eyelids. It took a lot of effort to crack them open. I thought I might be heavily medicated. Finally got my eyes to track.
A bright pink glob bounced somewhere near a white ceiling. Maybe a creature or ghost come to get a look at me?
I blinked a couple of times and the cheerful pink glob came into focus. It was a big bright balloon, swaying gently on a string. I rolled my eyes down, following the string that blurred in and out of focus. Myra and Jean were saying something. Maybe to me. I couldn’t seem to follow their words. My head echoed.
The string ended with a pale, bony hand.
Death.
He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry, either. He had on a T-shirt that said: WEMIGHTBEORDINARY,BUTATLEASTWE’RENOTBORING.
I snuffled a laugh. It was one of the T-shirts we printed up for tourists, much to the dismay of the little town of Boring, Oregon just southeast of Portland.
“There now,” he said, and I wondered why I could hear his voice so well when everything else sounded like I had a metal bucket on my head. “It is about time you woke. I do have other matters to attend.”
I was going to tell him I was so sorry to interrupt his busy schedule with my gunshot wound, but by the time I blinked, he stood next to me.
Death lifted my pinkie, which seemed like a really weird thing to do, and then patted my hand as if he were some kind of concerned uncle instead of the last face before the grave.
“Get well soon,” he said slowly with just a little hint of delight, as if he were reading off a cue card. I had a feeling he’d never said those words before.
I wanted to respond, but I was tired and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, he was gone and Myra was sitting in the chair next to me. I thought maybe a little time had passed.
“How about a drink of water?” she suggested.
“Sure.” The word came out breathy, but it felt good to be able to think again.
I was in a hospital room, the bed bent so I was almost sitting, a thin but warm blanket tucked around me from my chest to my feet. Both my arms were free, and there was an IV in the left one.
I took a sip of water through the straw Myra tipped my way. The water was cool and somehow tasted rich and clean. “What happened?”
“You got shot,” Jean said from the other side of the bed.
I glanced over at her. She looked worried, her green and blue hair making her eyes dark and glittery. “I told you to lock your damn door.”
Okay. Not worried. Angry. “He wasn’t at my door.”
She sighed. “I know, Delaney. You didn’t stay inside.”
“I didn’t think…” I tried to come up with something more to say. “I didn’t think.”
“Damn right you didn’t.” She sat forward and caught my hand, turning it without messing up the IV line. “You were shot. When we drove up and saw you there on the ground…” Her eyes welled up and she shook her head, unable to speak. “Jesus, Delaney. Jesus.”
“Here I thought the rhubarb would kill me.”
“Not funny,” she said, but at least she wasn’t crying.
“What happened to Dan?”
“We arrested him,” Myra said. “He’s claiming he didn’t know the gun was loaded. Says he’s innocent.”
“Horse shit,” Jean said.
