Then blinding light hits me, feeling like a sharp spike through my forehead. Everything is still a little blurry, but I can see Easton. He’s standing in front of me, saying something. Maybe he’s saying, “How you feeling?” I mumble something that sounds like “hurts.” He nods and says something I can’t understand. It’s hot, and sweat drips down my back.
My hands are taped to the arms of a chair. I look around and we’re someplace familiar, but it’s not the house. The walls and floor are wood and everything smells new.
The boathouse. We’re in the boathouse. The shutters are closed over the windows, so I can’t see outside. I have no clue what time it is.
There are three more people in the room with me other than Easton. They’re all taped to chairs, too. Two of them have Valencia’s tote bags over their heads. One doesn’t—the boy directly in front of me. His eyes are closed, but he has tape over his mouth. There’s more duct tape around his forehead, securing him to the headrest of a high-backed lounge chair.
Miles.
I try to say his name, but my throat feels like I swallowed a pint glass of razor blades.
Or maybe some Watergate salad.
My head is still pounding. Easton is talking, but I can’t understand what he’s saying. I close my eyes against the bright lights in the boathouse. My head falls forward and I drift off to sleep again.
A sharp smack brings me hurtling back to reality. I cry out and open my eyes. Easton is staring at me; he looks angry. He smacks me again, hard. Then again. I bite my cheek and the taste of blood spills across my tongue.
“Stop!”
“You gonna fucking stay awake?”SLAP!
“Yes!” My voice is hoarse, my throat dry. “Water.”
“God, you’re so whiny.” He walks over to the workbench to my right and grabs a glass, then fills it with water from a gallon jug. While he’s doing that, I notice a roll of duct tape on the counter. And a gun right beside it. Farther along is a bottle of what I think is vodka, and some kind of holder with metal tools sticking out of it,but I don’t focus on that because directly next to it is a red plastic gas canister. Across from me, behind Miles, the kerosene heater is blazing red, which explains why it’s so hot. But not why it’s on in the middle of May. My eyes flit back to the gas canister, and I wonder if it’s full of kerosene for the heater.
Easton puts the glass of water to my lips. I drink quickly. Most of it spills down my chin, and my throat still burns with every gulp, but I feel better already.
He takes the glass away and I turn to see Miles is still asleep. The other two no longer have their heads covered. Marcus and Valencia look like they’re in the same dazed and confused state that I was moments ago. Valencia is to my left, and she’s facing Marcus, who is on my right. Miles is in front of me. Easton positioned us so that we’re looking directly at the person in front of us, but we can still see each other.
I have enough clarity to feel a twinge of guilt—Marcus and Valencia are restrained like Miles and me. Which means they were innocent all along. My own history clouded my judgment so badly I couldn’t help but suspect these surrogate parents. And now we’re all going to die. I try to pull at the duct tape around my wrists, but it only serves to rip out the arm hairs beneath it.
Valencia tries to say something, but her voice breaks.
“What’s that, Mom?” Easton asks.
“What’s happening?”
“Oh.” He frowns. “Well, sadly, it looks like our family is coming to an end. It’s funny; I was kind of hoping you’d all live long enough to get dementia so I could see how much I could get away with telling you.Then, when you had lucid moments, the nurses in the home would think it was your demented ramblings.” He chuckles.
Valencia groans and her head slumps over again.
Easton clenches his jaw and walks to the workbench, where he grabs something made of orange plastic. JT’s inhaler. He goes back to Valencia and holds her head up by her chin. Her eyes flutter as she looks at him.
“I need you to breathe in, Mom,” he says. “It’ll counteract the sedative.” He pushes down on the inhaler, but Valencia doesn’t breathe in. He slaps her. “Wake up! Breathe!” He pushes again, and this time she breathes in through her mouth.
Her eyes open and she leans back in her chair, looking around in a dazed way.
“Where... why are...?”
“One more,” Easton says, holding out the inhaler.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Bronchodilator. I gave you a sedative, so you’re bound to feel a little groggy. But now I’m bored, and I need everyone awake and aware.”
Valencia looks at the inhaler like she doesn’t believe the correlation, but then puts her lips on it. Easton presses the inhaler, and she breathes in. Easton then moves over to Marcus, who’s drooling on his own shirt.
“Now, Dad got a good amount. Who knew his tolerance was so high? Must be all the THC you been doing, Pops!” He holds up Marcus’s head and puts the inhaler to his mouth. “Pretend it’s a bowl! The good shit. Breathe in.”
