“You’re shaking,” Jesse murmurs, his hold tightening.
“It was a shadow.” I chuckle without a trace of humor. “We must have missed it coming inside.”
Jesse’s pause lengthens, and I glance up, curious despite myself. Through all of this, he hasn’t panicked or flipped out once. Meanwhile, my fingers ache from holding tight to the seams of my sanity. I am one stiff wind away from scattering.
I wish we could split the difference. My heart, a little steelier. His, a little softer.
“But you said the last shadow turned into a version of your mom.” His fingers flex on my hip, a distracted motion.
“It wasn’t my mom this time.” Without meeting his gaze, I pull out of Jesse’s arms and head to the door, checking for any movement. “Each shadow shows me something different. The last one transformed the entire drive-in theater. This one … took me somewhere.”
I skirt the traffic cones at the head of the stairs and take the steps two at a time, eager to put as much space between me and the last twenty minutes as possible. As soon as we land on the second floor, a wave of noise crashes into us. Students stream through the halls, relishing the seven-minute pass period before our last class of the day.
Jesse keeps easy pace as I stride into the crowd. “Where did it take you?”
They leave these rotting shells behind.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I push my hair out of my face, fighting to regulate the air coming in and out of my mouth. My lungs struggle to expand for a full breath.
“Can I have my mom’s journal? I’ll translate the new entry and call you later today to go over it.”
He fishes the leather journal out of his backpack and passes it to me, a frown tugging at his mouth. “We should talk about what just happened. I think your mom was right about the shadows being a side effect. They’reconnected to the curse, but I don’t think they’re necessarily on the same side.”
An invisible tourniquet cuts off my airways. “Later,” I manage to force out. “I need to be alone for a while.”
I snatch the journal from Jesse and take off in a run.
I remember leaving the parking lot and picking a random direction to start walking. Walking and walking, long after my breathing slowed and my toes began to throb inside my sneakers.
By the time I realized I’d walked to the haunted train, I was already climbing inside.
I wanted to be alone. Far away from Jesse and Baba and Mr. Hale. Far away from the people I kept inadvertently hurting.
Ward’s rumbling skies finally make good on their threat, opening in sheets of freezing rain. The world outside disappears under the curtain of rain washing over the windows.
I pick at the moth-eaten cushion. How long did it take them to clean the blood from these seats? How rancid must the bodies have smelled after being left to swelter and putrefy for days?
Those people were going somewhere. They packed their bags and chose their most comfortable sweaters. They probably arranged for someone to pick them up at their stop and spent their last hours excitedly picturing the face of the person they were waiting to see.
If they knew they would die, would they still have bothered fixing the scarves around their necks? Packing snacks for their children?
I’ve always thought life was long and death was quick, but what if that’s not true? Death isn’t exiting a door and locking it shut as you go. What if when you die, you leave the door cracked behind you?
What if just a few inches away, those passengers are sitting right next to me, as alive as they were the moment they boarded the train?
The battery on my phone sends out a despair signal. Notifications flood my screen, all of them belonging to Jesse.
I lay my cheek against the chilly window, curling my knees to my chest. The train seats aren’t particularly comfortable, but at least they’re cushioned. Outside, the wind howls, whipping the phone cables between the leaning utility poles.
I should open my mother’s journal. Another shadow means a new entry. There might be a clue, some miniscule detail that’ll help me and Jesse figure out our next steps.
But it isn’t my mother’s memories I want to understand today.
It’s my own.
Khalto Safa left shortly after dawn on my last day in El Agamy, promising to return by dinner. She wouldn’t say what business required her urgent attention. Pressing her wouldn’t lead to anything pleasant, so I watched the gates close behind her with a mixture of relief and worry.
She had to come back, right?
