Another growl, longer and more insistent.
“When Matteo finds me,” I promise my stomach, patting it with my free hand, “he owes us both pasta. And chocolate. All the fucking chocolate in Cleveland.”
I close my eyes for a second, then snap them open in panic. No sleeping. Sleeping is dangerous.
“Is it June or December?” I wonder aloud, shivering as another wave of cold seeps through my thin summer dress. “It feels like December. Maybe we’re having a freak blizzard. Maybe I’ve been here for six months and it’s actually winter.”
My teeth chatter, and I tuck my free arm against my body for warmth.
“Is hypothermia napping a thing?” I ask Adam, who continues his impolite staring. “Like, if I just rest my eyes for a second, will I wake up a Ravencicle?”
The air tastes like copper and rot, the metallic smell of blood mixing with something earthy and damp. I try to breathe through my mouth, but that just means I can taste it instead.
“You know what this place needs?” I say to the dripping water. “Music. Ambiance. A little something to lighten the mood.”
I clear my throat, which feels like swallowing broken glass, and start to sing.
Drip-drip, drop-drop.
Finn can eat a rancid sock.
Drip-drip, don’t you stop.
‘Cause if you stop, I’ll fucking drop.
I laugh at my own absurdity, the sound turning into a painful cough. “Grammy worthy, right? I call it ‘Ode to Shitty Plumbing and Kidnapping Assholes.’”
My free hand moves to the handcuff again, fingers tracing the cold metal, checking to make sure it hasn’t somehow tightened while I wasn’t paying attention. It’s become a compulsive gesture—touch the cuff, follow the chain to the table, tug gently to confirm it’s still the same.
“I should write a song for Matteo,” I whisper, my voice growing weaker with each word. “Something he’d hear if he were here.”
My next song comes out as barely more than a rasp, desperate and quiet.
Firestarter’s coming home.
Burn the world until I’m found.
Light it up and scorch the sky.
Come before I fucking die.
The last word breaks on a sob that I quickly swallow down. No crying. Crying is just dehydration with an audience, and I don’t have water to spare.
“He’s coming,” I tell Adam’s corpse. “He’s going to find me, and then he’s going to blast your brother into so many pieces they’ll need tweezers to identify him.”
I try to imagine Matteo right now, what he might be doing.
“Maybe he’s already burning the city down,” I muse, the thought bringing a strange comfort. “Maybe Cleveland’s just one big bonfire right now. That would be nice. Warm.”
I shiver again, harder this time, the cold from the concrete floor seeping through my dress and into my bones. My feet have gone numb, and I wiggle my toes inside my shoes to get some feeling back.
The dripping water continues its maddening rhythm, and I find myself counting again. Since I don’t remember where I got to, I just say random numbers. Ten-thousand-one, ten-thousand-two.
“Matteo,” I whisper, no longer caring if the corpse or the dripping water or the concrete walls hear the naked desperation in my voice. “Matteo, please. Please find me.”
The cold seeps deeper, and I curl my free arm tighter against my body, trying to preserve what little warmth remains. My eyelids feel impossibly heavy, each blink lasting longer than the one before.
No sleeping. I have to stay awake.
