Bob lifts his head, ears pricked forward, staring at the empty backseat. The cone bonks against my arm.
“Do you hear it, too?”
He growls low in his throat, the vibration traveling through his tiny body.
Oh screw this.
I wrap Bob in a towel and haul ass out of the car. The gas station attendant startles when I barge inside. There’s an array of playing cards spread across the counter.
He gestures at the cards with one hand, a little sheepish. “Sometimes, it gets boring in here.”
“Can I play with you?”
He shrugs. “You know Kings in the Corner?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll teach you.”
I pull up a stool, and we play cards for an hour. He’s patient about explaining the rules, and I’m grateful he doesn’t talk much beyond the game. Bob falls asleep against my ribs. Only when my eyes start closing on their own and I can’t fathom another game, do I drag myself back to the car.
I didn’t think it was possible for everything to hurt worse, but by morning, my body has proven me wrong. The pulsing in my neck flares with pain every time I swallow. My throat hurts so much that even breathing makes tears well in my eyes, and my whole body is this weird combination of exhausted and wired, like I drank twelve cups of coffee and then got run over by a car.
There’s no way I can work today. I can’t fire a screw gun when I can’t keep my eyes open, and I certainly can’t stop myself from falling off scaffolding. Ghosts are real, and one tried to kill me.
I hate this. I hate feeling like I’m letting Ray down.
But I physically cannot do my job right now. Pretending I’m fine will get me or someone else hurt, so I text him that I’m sick.
RAY DAD’S FRIEND
Feel better. Shout if you need something.
His kindness makes me feel more like a steaming pile of garbage. I do need something, but I have no idea what that is, and I’d have to be on my deathbed to ask Ray for help with this.
I also know I can’t just stay in my car all day. I’m scared the voice was real, and that the car will fill with smoke. What if yesterday happens again? Do I throw salt at it? Phonetically pronounce some Latin?
I need answers. Real ones.
Bob’s more alert this morning. He ate his breakfast and pain pill and is now contorting himself to nibble at his cast despite the cone.
“What do you think? Should we go find the guys who saved us?”
Bob perks his ears forward, his tail doing a tiny wag. I’m taking that as a yes.
I park at the far edge of the Walmart parking lot, eyes scanning for any sign of Radio Shack grandpa or his accomplice, who, in my memory, looks like Marty McFly if he were stretched out on that taffy puller machine from Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory and made super tall. Early morning shoppers load groceries, and employees corral carts. One police car is parked near the front doors. I told the cop at the vet where I was attacked—maybe one of them is here to review security footage. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence, and the officer is here to shop. I grew up thinking cops were heroes, but after the murders, I learned most cops won’t care about what happens to you nearly as much as you do.
I pull on Dad’s jacket and step outside. My eyes immediately land on a dented red panel van parked in the exact spot I was in yesterday.
It could be a coincidence. But a creepy van being their vehicle of choice wouldn’t surprise me, so I cross the lot until I can make out a figure in the passenger seat.
It’s him.
Tall Guy is sitting there on his phone, black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
I step up to the door and knock on the window. Our eyes meet through the glass, and my lungs forget their job because, holy hell?—
He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
