“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?

His leg throbbed, but Ethan ignored the pain and the ache—more than anything, he wanted to move, wanted to get out of his room. Ethan put his left leg on the ground and his body wobbled; he shifted so that he could place his hands against the headboard and steady himself. Then he lowered his stump off the bed too and felt the gravity of his leg pull him downward; there was heaviness despite the absence and it overwhelmed his senses.

What would he do? Where would he go? To the bathroom? Downstairs? Could he prove to these strangers that he wasn’t a total invalid? But he was and he knew it, even as he tried to shimmy along the side of the bed, his leg in total agony, his hands shaking, he knew that without these people, he would die.

Ethan’s door swung open and Darla entered, waving a flashlight toward the bed.

“Ethan? Ethan?”  Darla said as she tiptoed into the candlelight room. She drew in a sharp intake of air when she saw him standing on the edge of his bed, hunched over, just in boxer shorts. “Are you out of your mind?” she spat and rushed over, dumping the flashlight on the bed and tucking her arms underneath his armpits. “If you popped a stitch, you’ll bleed out. Die.”

“I don’t want to stay cooped up in this room. I’ll die of boredom,” he moaned as she helped him sit back up on the bed.

Darla rolled her eyes. “Then I’ll bring some cards the next time I come in. We’ll play a riveting round of poker. What do you want to throw in the kitty? Since you want to gamble your life, how about your meds?”

“Did you just come in here to give me crap?” Ethan asked.

Darla smiled. “Hey, I feel like our dynamic duo is suffering a bit with you being laid up in here. I came in for company, to be honest.”

“The others don’t seem like they’re riveting conversationalists,” Ethan said and he pointed to a half-finished water pouch on his desk. Darla passed it over to him.