“I’m quite sorry to hear that,” Huck said and then he added. “The Kings can be notified that Lucy’s in the medic pod now. I’ll accompany you, if that’s okay.”
The medic nodded. “I’ll wait outside,” she said and then slipped back out the way she came in.
“Well, Lucy, I’m so terribly sorry to end our talk on such a horrible piece of news…” he cleared his throat and Lucy felt her body turn cold. Somehow she knew what he was going to say; she sat herself up on her elbows and shook her head.
“No,” she said. “No bad news. No. Don’t tell me anything.”
“I’m afraid,” Huck continued speaking over her pleas, “that the friend you arrived with—”
Lucy shook her head back and forth, her damp hair flying, and she couldn’t stop the tears. More than sadness, rage built up inside of her. Big blocks of fury set the foundation for all her other emotions; she teetered upon them and stared into an abyss. “No! Shut up. Shut up.”
Huck looked as if he had been slapped. His hurt was evident and made Lucy even angrier. “I do hate to be the bearer of bad news…but it appears your friend took his own life.”
The words hit her ears and she froze. With her chest heaving, her heart pounding, she stopped and stared at him, unblinking. No. That was wrong. That was a lie. Honest Huck. Full of lies. No. There was no way.
“They found him hanged in the tank a few moments ago.”
“No,” Lucy said with confidence, all the fight and fire leaving her body. She sat deflated and confused. “How? With what? On what?” She lobbed each question at him with a measured level of disbelief and self-assuredness. “And…he wouldn’t have,” she added in a whisper.
“It’s so terribly sad,” Huck said again. “To have survived it all…and then end it here.”
“You’re lying. Grant would never…”
“Your family will be here soon,” Huck interrupted, his voice carrying over hers. “What’s done is done. What’s gone is gone. The System is about new beginnings. So, I highly encourage you to focus on happy reunions now, shall we?” He sounded chipper once again. Lucy blanched at his nonchalance.
“Where is he? I want to see him! You say he’s dead? Prove it. You can’t. You won’t. You’re a liar. A liar,” she hissed.
“Lucy—” Huck said her name in a patronizing tone, chastising her inability to blindly accept the facts as he told them.
“You said you’d be honest, but then you lie to my face. I won’t ever believe you! I won’t ever believe you!” Lucy yelled at Huck. She picked up his dead daughter’s necklace and threw it at him; he didn’t move as the chain spun through the air and landed short, sliding across the tile toward his feet.
He looked injured. Surprised. He frowned and shook his head.
“You’re right,” he said to her. He looked straight at her, his eyes flashing. “Lying never does me any good. So, I will tell you…he didn’t commit suicide.”
Lucy held her breath and clenched her fists. Her fingernails created little crescent-moons dotted against her flesh.
“And he’s not dead…yet…” Huck added the last word slowly. “But you won’t ever see your friend again and I need you to accept that.”
“No. I won’t. I won’t ever stop until I see him again.”
“I can make many things happen today. I can reunite you with your family; I can make you comfortable here. But Grant,” Huck said the name like it tasted bitter on his tongue, “won’t work within our System, Lucy.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Lucy replied breathlessly.
“I’m sorry,” Huck said, and Lucy’s head popped up: his two words packed a wallop of emotion—as if he actually was sorry, as if it pained him to take away her friend.
“You can’t be,” Lucy said through tears. “You can’t be sorry and also take him away from me.”
“I have more than just you to think about, unfortunately,” he told her and then he turned around. “I’ll be seeing you around, Lucy. Be brave.” Then Huck turned and deliberately stepped over the necklace before punching in a code to the side of the door, which triggered the door to open automatically—like, Lucy couldn’t help but think, the doors in the show Star Trek that her father used to watch despite her and her brother’s protests.
In a second, Huck was gone. The door slid back into place and Lucy, still shackled to the bed, stared after him with her lip quivering and her mind racing. She was about to be reunited with her family. She was about to see her dad, hug her mom, and be with her brothers and sister again. But Grant. Lucy flopped her head back on the bed and brought the pillow up over her face and then she screamed as loud as she could into the folds of the fabric.
Grant. Grant. Grant.
Her friend.
Her solitary companion.
Lucy wiped her tears and struggled to sit up, the paper-thin gown they had dressed her in opened at the back. Seeing her family was secondary; she had to find Grant and help him, save him, rescue him from this place. But she was trapped and alone and without an ally. It was the worst feeling in the God-forsaken world.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ethan was dreaming about running. Jogging. With Sophie DiCarlo at his side. Their feet slapped along the concrete, but his dream was in mute—he could see Sophie’s perky pony-tail flop and bounce with each step, see her arms pump at her sides, and feel the wind rush against his face, but everything was silent: a world absent of sound. Sophie turned to smile at Ethan; her bright eyes so alive and trained only on him. She said something, called to him, but he couldn’t hear her. He could just see her lips moving.
“What?” he called. But even though he knew he was yelling, no sound came out.
Sophie spoke again. Nothing.
“I can’t hear you!” Ethan said as they jogged into the neighborhood, side-by-side on the road. Their legs rose and fell in unison against the concrete.
Then the sound hit him in a rush. The wind, the cars, the birds, a dog barking, and Sophie’s voice: all so crystal clear.
“You’re going to die,” she said with a smile.
Then blood began to pour from her eyes and her nose, streaming onto her sports bra and dripping down between her cleavage.
“What?” Dream Ethan asked her. And when Sophie DiCarlo opened her mouth to answer, a river of blood dribbled down her chin and stained her skin crimson.
Ethan woke with a jolt.
He was hot, burning up, and he yanked his blankets off and flung them to the floor. Then he swung his healthy leg to the side of the bed and physically moved his amputated leg over as well. With his shoulders heaving, he inhaled and exhaled in short bursts, staring at the ground, wishing he could get up and walk out of his room.
It was dark outside.
Someone had left candles burning on his desk. He sniffed and then hit his bed with balled up fists. His room stunk like lilac. He hated lilac; hated the scented candles his mother used to buy and stock in their hall closet. During her most proficient cleaning spells, the entire house reeked with the overwhelming scent of manufactured Hawaiian Breeze or vanilla bean candles.
Between his pain and his frustration, he couldn’t even find an ounce of nostalgia for something that so clearly represented his mother.
Without a nurse, an aide, he was trapped. He had slept all day; the house was silent. Ethan tried to push away the anger he felt at being left alone. What if he needed something? What if he had fallen out of bed? What if he was hungry? Had everyone forsaken him already?