Crack!
My knees tear across the ground, shredding my jeans, the skin underneath. I’m thrown face-first onto the driveway. My glasses crunch against bricks. A tree is on fire. A smoldering odor.
My body is heavy, uncooperative. I pull myself to my feet, stumble, limp, fall. Up again. Stumble. Kandy must’ve hit me. Evil Kandy from home, not the nicer one I just met. She followed me through the tree, she’s been stalking me from universe to universe, and now she clobbered me with an aluminum baseball bat. I look around, shield my head against another blow, but there’s no one. Just me, and the rain.
What’s that smell? That burning smell?
I walk for minutes, maybe hours.
A sign for Arainn Street, then an amazing castle with gargoyles, towers, stained-glass windows. Thick wooden doors, quarried stone floor. Not a castle. This must be the library.
Cold, cold air. I wring my shirt out in a sink. I drink from a faucet. Water, more water. I grip a cold iron handrail, climbing upstairs. I’ll live here. I remember thinking this was heaven, the science section. Yes, I’m in heaven. This can be home.
Science books. Books for pillows. Pillows for sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
I’m dreaming of Dad, kneeling on the ground, his jeans streaked with dirt. “That’s some tomato,” he says, pride in his voice. He places his hand gently underneath it, ready to twist it off the vine.
“Don’t!” I say, pulling his arm back. “We need to take photos first. It’s part of the assignment.” I’m in seventh grade, making a report for science class.
Then loud voices interrupt. Doctors and nurses are talking over me, like I’m not here. They speak in disconnected words: She mumbles nonsense … picking tomatoes … her California ID … called the social worker … Ruby is a runaway … name is Ruby … fifteen years old … tattoo … some cult thing … did she say Mom?
I push their voices away and keep dreaming. “Hurry up with the photos,” Dad teases, pretending to take a huge, noisy bite of the tomato. “I’m ready to eat your science project.”
The light is perfect. California sunshine, cloudless skies. I take closeups and wide-angle photos of the entire garden. There are five little green tomatoes, sprouting, plus the huge red one. “Take some photos of me,” I say, handing Dad the camera.
“Squat down next to it,” Dad says, snapping several shots. “So you’re on the same level.”
The doctors interrupt again. It’s a good sign she’s mumbling … if she wakes up … neurological damage, post-traumatic amnesia, aphasia …
Dad hands the camera back to me. I scroll through the photos, deleting several and keeping ten good ones. “That should do it.” I grin.
Dad doesn’t hesitate. He plucks the ripe tomato off the vine. “Remember when you made volcanoes with vinegar and baking soda in fifth grade?” he asks.
“Third grade.”
“Well, this is a hundred times better. Remind me to thank your teacher.”
Entry point chest, exit point right foot … burned hair … minimal second-degree burns …
We wash our hands in the kitchen sink, and then Dad slices the tomato into thick pieces. “I like mine with salt,” he says. “Just salt, nothing else.”
“Okay,” I agree.
We bite into the salty-sweet tomato, rosy-red and perfect.
Blood work, electrolytes, and glucose … CAT scan … infected leg injury … IV course of antibiotics … heart and brain … fresh coffee … want some?
“We got it made, kiddo,” Dad says, ruffling my hair. “Don’t we?”
“No doubt.”
Chapter Eighteen
A steady beeping reaches through my sleep, pulls me awake. Why did I set my alarm clock? Where’s the snooze button? No, no. It’s not an alarm—it’s Dad’s cell phone ringing. I was finally able to get a call through to him. Good. I need to hear his voice.
No. It’s that digital monitor—that’s what’s beeping. An IV is taped to the back of my left forearm; on my right index finger is a big white clip. I’m in a hospital room. Kandy must’ve slit my throat or pushed me in front of a moving car.
My mouth is sticky and dry. “Ice cube?”
I don’t think anyone’s in the room to hear me.
“Could I get some Gatorade?” I try louder. “I mean, TriAthlete?”
I stare at the ceiling, hoping to gather my thoughts. Then it comes to me—quite literally—in a flash. I remember the storm, and the lightning bolt. I can see it leaping off the speed limit sign, bouncing off a tree, then slamming me in the chest. Not a bullet to the chest fired by Kandy, but an electrical power punch courtesy of Mother Nature.
I want to sit up. Where are the controls for the bed? I pat around in the crisp, thin sheets. Where are my glasses? The wall clock is a fuzzy circle, dotted with red shapes that must be numbers.
Give yourself a minute, Ruby. Don’t make yourself lightheaded.
Even though I can’t see it, I mentally watch the second hand sweep around, making a 360-degree turn. Carefully, I pivot and sit on the edge of the bed. I pull my shoulders back, straighten my spine.
Slow down. Count to thirty.
I squint at the clock, but the second hand remains invisible to me. I know it’s there, making another lap. I don’t need to see it in order to know it exists. Ultraviolet light is invisible; gamma rays are invisible; electrons, neutrons, and protons are too small to see. Quarks are even smaller.
Now I put my feet on the floor, my gray hospital socks with rubber treads. I cannot put weight on my right leg. Or on my right foot. The whole thing feels dead. Why doesn’t it hurt more? I know I’m on pain medication; I remember the orange vial. I remember Mom and her apartment. I remember my last trip to the ER, and now I remember Dr. Leonard with his ash-white beard and young face. Did they give me more pain medication here, just now? Maybe I’ve had too much, or maybe it’s nerve damage, and that’s why I can’t feel my leg anymore.
I’m going to have to hop.
On a vinyl chair next to the bed, there are clear plastic bags. One contains my damp, burned-smelling clothes. The other holds my backpack. Carefully, I wheel the IV stand, and though the tubes are straining, I can reach my backpack. I root through until I find the spare clothes I packed two days ago. Three days? Four? I’m not sure. How long have I been in this hospital room? The shirt is damp, and the jeans smell like a campfire.
And then I find my glasses. What’s left of them. One lens is crushed beyond repair, so I pop it out. The frames sit crookedly on my nose, but through the remaining lens I can see the beeping digital screen where blue, purple, and green lines chart my vitals. My blood pressure is 150 over 60, and I can’t remember if that’s good or bad. I look at the clock again. It’s eight and getting dark outside, so that means p.m. Below the clock is a dry erase board. In blue ink it says TODAY IS SUNDAY, AUGUST 23.
Can I climb out the window? What floor am I on?
I have a hunch about these EKG leads that are taped to my chest. If I pull them off, an alarm will sound, and a nurse will come. But I’m pretty sure I can pull out the IV without anyone knowing, and then I can get my jeans on, and my shoes. Carefully, I pull the tape away, then slide the thin plastic tubing out. It stings.