“I left someone in a very dangerous position,” I tell her now, unhooking her hands and holding them between mine. They’re cold. Just like Em. Her hands never seem to warm to room temperature. “Once I check on them—”
“Them who?”
“It doesn’t—” I shake my head. This is wasting time. Forget the supplies. Forget everything. My pulse rate suddenly skyrockets, and the sense of urgency overwhelms me to the point I feel like I’m choking. “Please. I need to go.”
“Fine. I’m driving.”
Of all the people I don’t want to discover I’m keeping a teenage girl prisoner on the other side of the city, my mother ranks somewhere near the top. “Don’t be silly. I can drive myself just fine.”
“It’s getting late, you’re on a restricted licence, and you can barely walk.”
“None of which has been an issue before.”
She reaches into my pocket and takes my keys, dancing out of reach easily considering I can’t move without feeling stabbed in the lungs. “They weren’t an issue until someone beat you half to death in the driveway.”
Her chin juts out, a gesture I know well.
That’s her you’ve-just-had-your-last-chance look. Her final-straw look. Her don’t-test-my-patience-because-I’ve-had-enough look.
Usually, I wouldn’t let it interfere. Not with something I so desperately need to do. But my vision is terrible, I struggle to breathe. The codeine is doing fuck all to combat my pain, but it makes my thoughts fuzzy, slowing my reflexes.
“Fine. You can drive me.” I hold up a warning finger. “But you’re deaf, dumb, and blind when it comes to anything you see or hear, okay?”
She rolls her eyes and walks past me. Fair point. It’s not like I’m in a fit state to challenge her.
There’s also the take that she’s been in and out of psych wards for the past two decades. She’s seen some dark shit. A girl being restrained for her own safety is not only unremarkable but actively encouraged in those places.
“Jesus,” she says as I walk out of the front door after her, then nearly collapse. “Lean on me.”
I sing the tune from the song of the same name, something that seems hilarious to me but leaves her unamused. Luckily, with her guidance, we’re soon at the car and I get the fun of trying to remember how to fold myself into a seat.
“Where to?”
I recite the address, actually having to pull out my phone and check it, my brain’s so hazy on details. She cuts a sharp glance across to me, but I don’t know what it’s in reaction to, so just turn to stare out the window.
“Whose house is this?”
“Deaf, dumb, blind,” I remind her.
“Minor. Parent. Full custody.”
“You’re usually a lot more fun than this.”
“Caylon Reginald Mercer.”
That’s all she has to say. Invoking my full name is something she uses sparingly and I’m in no fit state to fight against it. “My boss gave me access to a house he… requisitioned.”
“Mm.”
“It’s nothing bad. It’s just not being used for anything else, and he owed me.”
“Mm.”
My inane mouth adds, “You can use it too if you like.”
“You already have a house. I remember vacuuming it just this morning.”
“It’s just for fun.”
