—Case notes from inside Alan Morrow’s file, written by Donald Dellman
I wrap Dad’s jacket around me, but nothing I do stops my teeth from chattering. I know this is part of the psychological manipulation. Or maybe it’s because the Game Master doesn’t feel the limitations of a human body anymore now that he’s dead. Either way, I need to be stronger than the cold. But it’s so fucking hard.
My feet keep me from walking around to keep my blood pumping, and my eyes keep drooping closed. I’m scared my body is shutting down. Every time my head starts to drop, or Nico moves against the chains, I pull my head up. My eyes stay fixed on his chest, like if I look away for even a second, he couldstop breathing. I need to be awake so I can get him down fast enough to revive him. I don’t care if the Game Master strings me up there with him.
Watching Nico hanging there makes this fierce determination claw up my throat. I told myself that when we found Donny, I was going to be strong for Nico, but Nico has been protecting me since we got here. I need to protect him the same way.
I don’t know how much time has passed before he mumbles, without opening his eyes:
“I feel like I’m trapped in a horror movie about a reappearing blanket I could never get rid of.”
As threadbare as his voice sounds, at least he’s talking again.
“Ah, yes,” I say. “Theblanketis the most horrifying part of this situation.”
He pushes on his feet, clearly trying to take the weight off his wrists, but his knees buckle, and he cries out. I’ve never heard him make such a pained sound. I want so badly to take his pain away. I’d take his place on the pole in a second if I could.
“Do you think we’re going to die here?” I ask.
“I’m not that easy to kill, Eden,” he rasps.
“I’m being serious.”
“Me too,” he says. “And I’m saying no.”
The certainty in his voice steadies me. I don’t know why. Just because Nico says something doesn’t mean it’s true, but my nervous system seems to disagree.
“Do you think the others are going to come?” It’s not a good sign they’re not here already. Without Donny or Nico, how good are they at tracking?
Zoey might be able to pull security footage from the alley, but if there is none? They don’t know the Game Master is possessing a cop.
Is he possessing a cop, or was he impersonating one? Whatever the guy’s occupation, he’s definitely not any of the potential hosts Nico or I checked out.
“They’ll come,” Nico says.
“Do you have a plan?”
“I’m working on one,” he says, readjusting his arms. “You threw a wrench into my first.”
He’s already closing his eyes again, but not to drift into sleep. He settles into careful stillness, and each exhale comes out with increasing steadiness until he opens his eyes ten seconds later.
I don’t know why I didn’t realize until now, but his closing his eyes and counting in his head must be his version of clutching Dad’s dog tags. A way to ground himself and manage pain.
An electronic voice jolts me to attention:
“Trial three will commence in ten minutes. Prepare yourselves.”
I’m on my feet before the voice finishes speaking, ignoring the way my entire body screams as I grab the chain.
Nico drops to his knees, then collapses onto the floor. The relief that crosses his face when he’s no longer fighting gravity is so obvious it makes my chest tight. My arms slide around his waist. He’s so much heavier than before.
“You don’t have to help me,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice, and his body is limp against mine. “I… can’t sit up.”
“I got you,” I say. “You can.”
I get him leaning against the pole, crouching next to him with my hands on his shoulders. His face is wan, and his body is suffering so much that I don’t know what needs help first, or if there’s any part of him Icantouch without making it worse.
I take one of his hands in mine, lifting it from his lap as bile presses against the back of my throat. The extra rest we’d scored after the glass trial and the challenge of removing the glass fromme had helped restore his fingers to some degree, but Nico’s second stint on the pole has destroyed his progress, even with his feet on the ground this time. His tattooed skin is gone in places, rubbed off by the cuffs. His fingers are as fat as breakfast sausages, and his skin is shiny from swelling. The stick figure on his pinky is stretched wide.
