But I’m frozen.
A red bus zips past me. It’s so close that it almost runs over my shoes, its wind making me stagger back.
On the sidewalk, the man I’m sure is Alessio stands still. I think he froze too, probably thinking the bus would hit me. I thought the bus would hit me too.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Hands grab me and shove me into a dark space. I hear a door slam closed, and a man says, “We have her. On our way.”
FORTY-FOUR
ARE THOSE BARS?
Lake
My head swims and feels as heavy as a family-sized watermelon.
I can barely peel my eyes open, and when I do, my heavy lids droop back down.
I woke up this way once before. Right after my appendix ruptured, the surgeons performed an emergency surgery to save my life. I probably got hit by a bus. My body’s so heavy. I must’ve undergone surgery, and the drugs are making me woozy.
I lift my arm toward my face, but miss. I’m uncoordinated, still high from the anesthetic. I try again and concentrate on bringing my fingers to my eyelids. I touch my right lid and pull it back to open it.
The darkness soothes my eyes, and the little bit of light coming from outside through the busted corner window near the top of the tall ceiling, at least a hundred feet from me, tells me I’m probably still in the operating room. Am I in the morgue? Huh. That would be wild.
The light flickers.
I wait a few more minutes and open both eyes. I rub them and slowly sit up. Under me, a bed creaks as if it’s on its last good metal box spring. I’m wearing the same pants and shirt from yesterday. They’re dirty. I run my hand over my belly and legs, feeling for injuries, but find I don’t have any.
My left side is sore, though, and my shoulder hurts a little, but I don’t think I’ve undergone surgery. If a bus hit me, I’d be dead or seriously injured. Where the hell am I?
I try to stand, but my head swims again, prompting my belly to churn. Uh-oh. I’m going to be sick.
A hand over my mouth, I try to stop from puking, but fail. I lean over the side of the bed and throw up bile. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything.
I lie back down and allow my body to rest again. The light far outside the tall window flickers again.
Throwing up does have a positive side. It expels whatever bothers the body. I feel better now. Or better enough. My eyes have adjusted, and I see lines in my vision, but I don’t know what they are. I sit up, then stand carefully and slowly. When I think I can walk, I take a step, then another, but I wobble, weak at the knees.
I collapse to the floor.
I stay there for a while. It’s not bad. It’s cold but smelly. What are those lines?
I belly crawl until I reach one line and frown. Is that… No. I wrap my fingers around a thick metal bar. I’m in prison.
I’ve landed myself in prison.
Oh no. I don’t stand a chance of surviving. The moment the idea of shouting for someone to get me out of here crosses my mind, I stifle it. It’s prison. They keep you in. I can’t be stupid. If the inmates hear me crying to get out, they might stab me just to shut me up.
I guess my strategy is to keep a low profile. Do my time. However long that is. I bet it’s life without parole. But hey, it’s life.
The footsteps approach, and a man wearing black pants and a leather jacket stops and hovers above me. There’s a cross tattooed on the side of his neck, and he’s holding a machine gun across his chest. Tattooed fingers stroke the trigger.
Don’t prison guards wear uniforms?
“Hi,” I greet him.
He doesn’t respond.
