I’d leaned as close to the gap as I’d dared and whispered, “I’d rather kill him myself.”
You will Hazel. You will.
I wish she hadn’t said that. Because as soon as she did, I knew she was right. If Scout stayed with me, he would die. I wasn’t enough to keep him safe. I always hurt the ones I love, and sometimes they don’t recover from it.
“Please talk to me, Hazel.”
I should go up there. I know I should. She sounds so frightened, and after everything that happened, I’m not surprised. I swing myself off the mattress, testing my legs can take my weight as I straighten up. Outside, the snow has a hard, crystalline glitter, as if it has thawed and refrozen in the night. I can see my breath as I move carefully across the room. I notice more of those jet-black mushrooms growing out of the wall as I climb the stairs. They ooze a rich, creamy liquid that I don’t want to touch. They don’t look like anything I’ve seen before. Something about them makes me not want to go near them.
“Hazel?”
“I’m here.” She sounds like she has been crying. “How’s your hand?”
“The blood has stopped but the pain is coming back. My brother said it will hurt like hell when the pills wear off.”
He’d given her a little white pill for the pain. I don’t know what it was, but it had seemed to work quickly. She’s such a tiny little thing, I’d told him, that if he got the dose wrong, he’d end up killing her. Andrew had just stared at me from his bloodshot, streaming eyes, teeth clenched. I should have known then that he would have something in that little medicine cabinet to knock me out. I should have seen it coming.
“You might need stitches. There was a lot of blood.”
“Stitches? Like with a needle?” She sounds so horrified that I almost smile.
“Yeah. You need to close the wound. Do you think your brother would take you to hospital?”
Ping.An idea then, not quite a light bulb over my head, but with my foggy thinking, I’ll take what I can get.
I still might have a chance of getting out of here.
“Hostipal?”
I’m not sure she’s even aware she’s saying it wrong. She sounds scared and breathless, but also a little woozy. She must be tired too. I doubt she got any sleep. I close my eyes, feeling my own head drooping. I am a heavy rock dropped into deep water. Sinking, sinking.
“Maybe. Your fingers are all broken, they might need to be in plaster. Splints, at the very least.”
“I don’t want to go to hostipal. My brother said people who go in there come out dead. Like our parents.”
Your parents were dead before they even got to the ambulance, honey, I think.But maybe your brother didn’t tell you that. Maybe he wanted to shield you from survivor’s guilt—after all, you lived.
“Your brother tells you all kinds of stuff, Maria. It doesn’t make any of it true. You need a doctor. Sutures, at the very least.” I wince, remembering how her fingers had looked—like sausages with the skin split all the way down the middle. “But the fact that you’re here talking to me means he’s not home. So where is he?”
“He took Scout away. It was still dark, but the snow had stopped.”
I stare at the wall, feeling clawed, full-throated panic threaten to overwhelm me. I fight to keep my voice steady. “Was he—Scout, I mean—was he still alive?”
“He was sleeping.”
Stomach acid burns my throat. “That doesn’t answer my question. Was healive? Please, Maria, it’s important. Try to think.”
A silence follows, one in which I have to fight not to scream and drum my fists against the door. Seconds tick past. Finally, she says, “His hand.”
“Scout? What about his hand?”
“It opened, then closed. Like a fist.”
My heart soars. I can’t help it. Hope, the giant-killer. “Are you sure? Maria, are you positive?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t sound it. Her voice sounds wavering and weak, rising upward at the end of the word, turning it into a question.
But I have only that one word to cling to, so I grit my teeth and nod.Okay, I think.Okay.