He does not look very handsome. He looks ridiculous, and every one of his estimated ten years, but he’s going to be okay.
The number that comes up on the card reader makes me sincerely hope that the vet tech miscalculated my total. The emergency treatment wipes out most of my savings, but it’s worth it for Bob.
I’m equally unhappy about the police officer waiting for me by the doors. Iknewthe vet was looking at me suspiciously. I should have worn a scarf. Cops never truly care about me when something bad happens. It’s the same for social workers. My social workersaidshe had my back, but she always sent me to homes that were only in it for the stipend, and she never listened when I told her something was wrong.
But I know this cop won’t let me leave here without telling him what happened, so I tell him the basics—minus the part about the parking lot exorcism, because I’d like to avoid a psychiatric hold, thank you very much. I promise to go to thehospital if I get worse, and mercifully, he doesn’t force me to go to the hospital.
I end up driving to a gas station near the construction site afterward, in a busy area with lots of people coming and going.
Bob sits in the passenger seat, the cone preventing him from curling up the way he usually does. He keeps snagging it on the seat.
“There’s nothing shameful about your cone,” I say, rubbing his ears. “It’s a cone of bravery, if you ask me.”
I sign his cast and make him a nest on my lap with a towel. He’s groggy from the meds, but he keeps his head up, staring at me like he’s fighting the drugs because he doesn’t want to take his eyes off me. I run a hand over his back until he drops his head with a gigantic sigh.
When his breathing evens out, I flip down the visor to examine the red line circling my throat. It’s ugly. I clean it with alcohol wipes, and each swipe sends a fresh bolt of pain through me.
I can’t believe that guy got the jump on me. Daddrilledsituational awareness into my head from the time I was old enough to walk. I shouldn’t have been drinking. Alcohol dulls everything, which happens to be the reason I like it so much. The year after I aged out of foster care, when I was still sleeping beneath underpasses, I was drinking so much. I was honestly waiting around to die and didn’t care if someone snuck up on me because at least then I could join my family. But I pulled myself together, and my rule now is I only drink once I’m settled for the night. The smart thing to do would be to never drink at all, but I don’t hate myself that much.
Did those two cosplayers really perform an exorcism?
There has to be a logical explanation. Maybe I’m having a lapse in sanity. Or maybe my oxygen was cut off too long andmessed with my head. Brain injuries can cause all kinds of visual distortions.
But no, Bob saw something too, and dogs don’t hallucinate. At least I don’t think they do.
Those men saw the ghost and knew what it was. Not only that, but they knew how to trap it, like they hunt ghosts professionally.
Oh, sure. Professional ghost hunters. And I’m a Disney princess.
But they have to be, because that smoke thing was for sure a ghost, and Old Guy asked me how long I’d been able to see the dead. Like most people can’t.
I pinch the bridge of my nose to the point of pain.Obviouslymost people can’t see the dead. It’s not normal to go around seeing ghosts everywhere.
I grip Dad’s dog tags under my shirt. I wonder what he’d make of this. He’d probably laugh.
Ghosts, princess? For real?
He’d be right to be suspicious. Dad was in the army before becoming a SWAT cop, so he was practical about everything. He didn’t believe in God, and neither did Mom in the traditional sense, but she used to say the universe was bigger than what we could see. According to her, there were forces out there we’d never understand.
Mom wouldn’t doubt this for a second. She’d already be opening all the car windows so we could burn sage to cleanse the place.
The thought makes my chest ache, but in a good way. Picturing her here makes this whole thing feel a little more okay.
I bite down on my cheek to stop myself from laughing. What was that thing Dr. Doofenshmirtz said?
If I had a nickel for every timesomeonetried to murder me, I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.
I install the privacy shades over my windshield and windows, then recline the driver’s seat and pull my sleeping bag over Bob and me. I won’t risk any more Jim Beam, so I hold Bob as close as the cone of bravery allows and try to convince my brain to turn off.
Every time I drift toward sleep, my body jolts awake to pressure around my throat. The third time I wake up, I give up and pull the shade down enough to watch the night attendant mop inside.
Around 3 AM, I hear a voice from the backseat.
I turn around so quickly my neck twinges, but there’s nothing there. Just my crinkled mattress pad and an empty water bottle on the floor.
“Hello?”
No reply. All I can hear is the distant rumble of the highway.
