Sometimes I feel like I have all the wrong emotions. By rights, I should probably be more anxious that we don’t know where Madeline is. After all, I’ve probably got the best idea out of all of us of all the terrible things that could happen. Steep hills, iced-over hairpin turns, mountain lions, bears, rednecks. And of course I’m worried—the thought of her hurt makes myspine turn to ice—but there’s something about emergencies that transforms me from Javier, General Disaster, to Javier, Natural Born Leader.
“Should we call the police?” he asks.
“They’re already keeping an eye out,” my mom answers. To put it mildly, the Burnley County Sherriff’s Department wasn’t yet concerned about an adult woman being late to dinner, even if her father swore she was never late.
The room goes quiet for a few moments, and then we all startle when there’s a knock on the door. Wyatt comes in, and Gerald practically sags with relief.
“You’re the young man with the truck? Good,” he says, then goes on before Wyatt can even respond, pulling out a road map of the county. “I’ve marked our current location in red and her destination in green. Now, as you can see, there are several different routes available, but I think this is the most likely, based on the directions Google Maps gives.”
Wyatt is nodding along, very serious. I’ve already heard this at least twice in the fifteen minutes I’ve been here.
“Now, Madeline is—sometimes she likes to take a scenic route, even if it’s inefficient,” Gerald says. “And, you know, if there’s the world’s largest ball of yarn or something down one of these roads, then go there first because she could never resist?—”
Gerald’s phone rings, and he jumps so hard it flies off the counter.
“Is it—” he starts, but Bastien’s already grabbed it off the floor, and Gerald looks at the screen in horror, then stabs it twice before it connects.
“Sweetheart,” he says in a rush. “Are you all right? Where are you? Is everything okay?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MADELINE
The very niceon-call doctor is trying to keep me from seeing the needle, but it’s not working. It’s sharp, shiny, curved, andright there.
“I’m never using Google Maps again,” I say. “I promise.”
“It doesn’t usually steer people quite this wrong.” I’m pretty sure the doctor, an older Black woman, is laughing at me behind her mask. “I think this is the first time I’ve had to give someone stitches because of bad directions.”
“A little common sense does go a long way, kiddo.” My dad squeezes my hand. There’s still blood under my fingernails and in my cuticles, which is gross, but he clearly doesn’t care.
“Dirt roads are very normal around here,” I say as the doctor prods my forehead with her fingertips. I don’t feel anything. “It didn’t seem weird that it was telling me to drive on one.”
“The county should probably contact Google and see if they’ll take it off,” the doctor says. “All right. Close your eyes and take a deep breath—you may feel a pinch.”
I do, and my dad squeezes my hand again. Then I feel what I can only describe as a hard tug on my skin, and I’mveryglad I can’t see what’s happening.
“Wow,” my dad says.
“Don’t watch,” I beg.
“It’s kind of fascinating, actually,” he says, and then, to the doctor: “You’re very good at this.”
“I’ve stitched up a whole lotta people,” she says. “Plenty of them much worse than this. You’re a cakewalk.”
“You hear that? I’m a cakewalk,” I tell my dad and then flinch when the needle hits some skin the novocaine didn’t reach.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “Three more.”
Getting five stitches in my forehead is, actually, not how I was expecting my day to end. My dad, Paloma, and Bastien were starting to drive me a little crazy in the cabin, and Paloma was making noises about some wine that my dad liked, so I volunteered to drive to a winery to buy some. It was ten percent out of the goodness of my heart and ninety percent to get out of the house and be alone for a while. Maybe play some sad loud music and shout along because I’m still stuck here for a few more days, constantly seeing a man who thinks that hooking up sometimes istoo hard.
Which just means he doesn’t like me, right? I’m pretty sure it’s that simple.
Anyway, Google Maps is a filthy lying liar that directed me down a dirt “road” through the forest, where I promptly swerved to avoid a giant pothole and slid into a ditch. Then, when I got out of the car to see if I could fix it, I slipped on some ice and sliced my forehead open on a rock. Luckily while I was standing there bleeding, a handful of Starbucks napkins pressed to my head, some teenagers in an ancient Ford Explorer came along. I think they were planning to park somewhere and fool around, but they were nice enough to take me to the emergency room instead.
All around, awonderfulday to cap off a wonderful week.
“Do I look like Frankenstein?” I ask when she’s done and snapping off her gloves.
