Da would probably make fun of him if he saw Micah playing nursemaid like this, but luckily, he and Cheryl are asleep. Or passed out. I don’t really care.
I rescued the cans so I don’t get a hiding when he wakes up, and Micah can take care of me like he wants, with no one else around to tease him.
“You’re an idiot,” he says in the same long-suffering tone he almost always uses with me. “Trash cans are not worth getting pneumonia over.”
“Yeah, but you know how mad he’d be. I’ll be fine.”
Micah watches me for a long time before he goes to grab another cheap fleece blanket. I keep shivering.
I’m shivering.I think I’m in the back of an SUV. I can tell that it’s daytime, but I’m not sure how much time has passed since the shooting.
The sun is streaming in, and it’s August, so it’s probably hot as Satan’s ball sack outside. But whoever’s driving has the A/C going, and it’s making the car seem like a walk-in freezer. I’m stretched across the back seat with a canvas jacket thrown over me, but it’s useless. My skin is covered in cold sweat, making me stick to the tan leather seats so much there’s a wet sucking sound when I try to shift position.
I want to ask them to turn it down, but my tongue feels too thick, and my throat is too dry.
Even swallowing takes so much effort, I’m ready to go back to sleep.
I touch my side where it hurts, and my fingers come away covered in dark, tacky blood. That’s my confirmation it’s time to go back to sleep.
Fuck consciousness.
I don’t knowhow much time passes after that. It could be days. I get jostled and poked and prodded, but the pain gets worse and so does the shivering. I’m still bleeding, and it’s getting harder to tell the difference between my dreams and when I’m awake.
The dreams about Micah are coming more frequently. He was the only one who ever took care of me, so it makes sense. I don’t normally let myself think about him, but if I’m going to die, who cares?
Dream-Micah cleans up my wounds and wraps me in a warm blanket, and it’s the first time I’ve felt relief since I found out I survived.
The next timeI open my eyes, I know I’m really awake because everything hurts again. We’ve stopped moving at last. Thank fuck.
I feel more clearheaded than I have in days. My vision is almost normal. Except for the fact that dream-Micah is standing in front of me, in the middle of what might be the real world.
Also, he doesn’t look like dream-Micah anymore. He looks like an adult version of the child that lives in my memories.
He still has the same concerned wrinkle between his eyes that he always used to, but his face is different. It’s a man’s face, with sharp cheekbones under those big doe eyes. His dark hair isn’t long and messy anymore. Instead, it’s shorter at the sides and longer on top, just long enough to fall into his face and curl into his eyes.
Nothing feels right. Nothing feels real. I reach out for him on instinct, and he frowns, but leans down and tangles his hand in mine. Exactly how we used to in the closet. His hand is warm, but much larger than it used to be. It’s a man’s hand, with a square palm and long fingers.
I still can’t decide if he’s real or if I’m dreaming, but I cling to him, anyway.
Micah comes closer until his face is hovering just over mine. His mouth tugs up on one side in an approximation of a smile, although he looks drawn and tired, with dark shadows under his eyes.
His eyes are the same as they always were, though. No matter if the rest of him is different. They’re dark blue, like the color of river water when it’s been raining, and the banks are about to burst.
“Hey, Tadhg,” he says in a quiet voice. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I try to smile at him, but my face isn’t cooperating. Instead, I’m hit by a sudden wave of weakness. My chest feels concave, and that weakness is pulling the rest of me down with it. My eyes fill, and all the thoughts and feelings that I’m so careful to keep stuffed beneath the surface threaten to spill out.
What’s happening to me?
Micah frowns, because he was always good at reading how I felt, even when I tried to hide it. I can see him do a million lightning-quick calculations before his eyes flick to the side with a nervous glance. To the side where Father is probably standing, my brain realizes as it slowly comes back to reality.
“I’m sure it hurts like a bitch, brother,” he says. He’s giving me an out for the single tear that’s already slipped out of my eye and the others that are threatening to follow. His voice also sounds kind of fake. Not only like it’s the adult version of his voice that I’ve never heard before, but like it’s artificially deep, or something. “I’m going to get you fixed up. Promise. Close your eyes and try to stay still.”
I do as he says because that makes everything seem so much simpler in that moment. I also don’t want to risk catching a glimpse of my father’s face.
But I don’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t let go of mine. If this is a dream, it’s a weird one, but I’ll take it.
Chapter Three
