It took her far too long just to type out her name.
I think we need to ask about that guy after all.
Lucy made a mental to-do list. She didn’t think it would really help. But it felt like it would help, which was almost as good.
She stripped off last night’s clothes and put on the first thing she could stand to wear: a light, comfortable dress that barely touched her hypervigilant skin. She emptied her clutch back into her regular purse, folding her ID and her insurance card back into her wallet. Then she mapped out, in her head, the rough path to the health center. If there really had been something in her seltzer, maybe they could run some kind of test.
It seemed like a tall order for a campus health center. But every bit of the practicality she usually had in an emergency had abandoned her. By the end of her grandfather’s hospice care, she’d been very good with emergencies. But Pop had been dying, and there was one cold comfort when someone was dying: that no matter what happened, it was predictable. The ending, at least, was always certain.
She made her way down the three flights of stairs and stepped into the path of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Quincey Hall lobby.
Her headache burst open like an overripe fruit.
Lucy staggered into the shadow between windows. Ducking out of the light helped, a little: Her stomach stopped surging, the vise around her temples slackened. She lowered herself to the nearest couch, the muscles of her legs twitching from the sheer effort of moving. Her cousin had migraines. Maybe that was what this was, though she’d never had one before.
Just like she’d never passed out before.
She tucked her head against her knees and, breathing raggedly, waited for it to pass. The campus shuttle stop was just out the door and around the corner. If she could make it there, then she could make it to the health center.
Just as her own shaking slowed, something quivered against the side of her hip. It took her a moment to recognize that it wasn’t her own body this time. Inside her purse pocket, her phone was ringing.
Her mother was calling.
Lucy squeezed her eyes shut. Granted, her priorities had been suddenly, violently reshuffled after last night. But one thing hadn’t changed. When Jillian called, she had to answer.
“Hello?” Lucy nearly winced at how rough her voice sounded. It was never a good idea to start a conversation with Jillian while on your back foot.
“Thereyou are.” It was only her opener, and she was already revved up. She said it like she’d been calling for hours—and it was only then that Lucy remembered the five unread texts from that morning. “What’s going on? Are you hurt? Did something happen?”
Maybe, and maybe. Though how her mother had divined that, she had no idea. Her sixth sense for disaster was strong, but notthatstrong.
“Nothing’s going on,” she finally managed. “Sorry, I didn’t get to read your messages yet. Is everything okay?”
“You haven’t—” Jillian cut herself off. Lucy heard her take a breath. “Is that all you have to say for yourself? Lucy, I didn’t sleep awink. Why did you text me all that last night?”
Last night. Lucy’s stomach dropped as she toggled over to her texts, scrolling back past the missed messages she hadn’t read yet. Sure enough, there was a string of texts from her to her mother, too. Time-stamped just after one a.m.
mama
the night is alive
Either Jillian had already been awake, or the messages had woken her. Her own message was stamped just a few seconds later.
????
Lucy’s reply came a minute after that.
natalie sent me home,
but I didn’t want to sleep.
Jillian replied.
Lucy where are you?
Are you safe???
Then after that, the last message from Lucy:
