by April Henry
Miranda says slowly, “So you think that all the doctors and hospitals and drug companies know there’s a better way to treat cancer but they’re not telling anyone because they want to make money?” Some, maybe, but all of them? She doesn’t believe that.
Grace shrugs. “Most of them probably just believe whatever they’re told, the same as the rest of us.”
Cole has been nodding. “All those companies that make drugs and chemicals—they want to keep us in the dark. Fighter jets are dumping chemtrails into the atmosphere. The Zika virus came from a government lab. Chicken is full of hormones. And the government covers it all up. My brothers were in the army. What you read in the papers or see on the news—half of it’s wrong or flat made up.”
“Exactly!” Grace bobs her head.
Are Grace and Cole right? Miranda doesn’t want to believe it, but what about drugs like Oxy? The companies that make it must know how many people are using it the way she is, which isn’t exactly for physical pain. Except now that it’s completely out of her system, she really is in pain. Her joints ache fiercely, like someone is holding the ends of her bones and twisting them.
“That’s why I want to try something natural,” Grace says. “But the judge said I wasn’t mature enough to make that decision. Even though my parents researched it.”
“Wait a second.” Javier looks at her. “Is this what you want or what your parents want?”
“It’s what I want, of course,” Grace says. “Do you think I want to lose my hair? Or not to be able to have kids?”
“That would still be better than dying,” Amina says stubbornly.
“That’s not the choice. Don’t you see that? They tried to make it out that I didn’t understand, but they’re the ones who don’t. The hospital went to a judge. And he ordered me to have surgery to put in this port, and then this week they were going to force me to do chemo. So my mom and me, we left Seattle. Dyed our hair, gave ourselves different names, withdrew a bunch of cash, and started driving. And now she’s dead.” Grace takes a deep, shuddering breath. “And I don’t know what to do.” She puts her hands over her face and starts to sob. “I just don’t know what to do.”
4:48 p.m.
SKINNER: Oh my God!
DISPATCH: Ron? What’s happening?
SKINNER: No, no, no!
DISPATCH: Ron, take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.
SKINNER: Those male hostages they’ve got all lined up—they just shot one in the back of the head!
DISPATCH: Security guard reports at least one of the hostages has been shot.
UNIT 68: What’s the ETA on SWAT? Or the Crisis Negotiation Team?
DISPATCH: Due to traffic, ETA ten for mobile command center. Longer for Crisis Negotiation.
UNIT 68: Copy. We can’t wait. I’ve got a shield, a Halligan tool, and some flash bangs in my car. Give me three units for an active shooter. We have to go in.
DISPATCH: Copy. 43, 41, and 19. Respond to south parking lot of Fairgate Mall for active shooter.
UNIT 68: Get the RP to tell us the best way in.
DISPATCH: Ron, check your cams. What’s the best entrance for our team to take?
SKINNER: I can’t believe this. Everyone’s dying!
DISPATCH: Ron, listen to me. We need to know where the officers can enter to help those people. Look at your cams.
SKINNER: I think they can come through Nordstrom. It looks empty.
WHO HE REALLY IS
4:49 P.M.
Parker’s not sure how long he’s been waiting inside the Van Duyn workroom. His shoulders ache from pressing against the wall on one side and the door on the other. Moxie is, he thinks, asleep. There hasn’t been even a rustle from the cupboard. And no sounds outside this room either, no matter how he strains to hear. No shouts. No gunshots. Even the sirens that were faintly wailing when the siege first started seem to have ceased.
While he waited for the killers to come through the door, and hoped that they never did, Parker set down the knife and pulled his phone from his back pocket. He’d missed a couple of dozen texts. From his mom, his dad, his friends. It looked like everyone else who was at his table managed to get out.
But the text that first caught his eye was Miranda’s. R U out? Hiding w/ people at Culpeppers.
He texted her back. Hiding Van Duyn storeroom w/ sister. 30+ ppl trapped in hall. Killers pulled metal gate across. Already shot 1.
Thinking of Miranda fills him with deep shame. In fact, as he sits on this white tile floor and waits to see if he’s going to die, Parker is ashamed by pretty much everything he’s done recently. If he’s honest with himself, he’s turned into kind of a jerk, especially since the wrestling team took state. Today especially. Ignoring Moxie. Leaving a mess. Taunting that busboy. If there’s a heaven, he’s pretty sure that’s not where he’s going to end up.
But it’s been going on for longer than just today. Like that one afternoon a few weeks ago that he spent with Miranda. He’s surprised she cared enough to text, let alone to try to drag him to safety. He pictures her cowering behind Culpeppers’s metal roll-down shutter, reviewing her life the way he’s reviewing his.
A few weeks ago, Miranda had seemed to be the solution to a problem. Everyone always thought Parker was such a player. That he was getting some left, right, and center. The truth was that he had never done any of the things they thought. Nothing more than a few drunken kisses. And when he looked around school, it seemed like even the loneliest, ugliest losers were still managing to hook up.
If the talk turned to sex, Parker said as little as possible, trying to let a smirk and a shrug hint at his imaginary expertise. And because Parker was a golden boy, people believed it. A few girls even let people think that something had gone on between them. But the more his reputation grew, the more his confidence shrank. What if some girl expected something from him that he didn’t even know how to do?
He and Miranda grew up only two blocks apart. The school boundary, however, falls between their houses. During summers when they were little, they played at the same park while their moms sat on a bench and gossiped. But as they got older, they saw each other less and less.
Then Parker had run into Miranda at a party, begging people for Oxy or, failing that, money for Oxy. Hinting that she would do anything for more of those round yellow pills.
Parker saw an opening. They could help each other out. And keep their mouths shut afterward.
He arranged for her to come over the next day after school, when his parents were at work and Moxie was on a playdate. Even though they were alone, he still started at every noise. Everything was both fake and too real.
Now, as he cradles his phone, the only light in the dark storeroom, Parker asks himself what he expected to feel after. Taller? Überconfident? Able to get with any girl he wanted?
But really he just wishes it had never happened. He gave her an extra hundred to make sure she kept it a secret. Still, he was worried. What if she laughed about him with those druggie friends of hers? What if she told people the truth?
Because the truth is that he doesn’t know any more than he did before that afternoon. He doesn’t know what would make Miranda smile, let alone gasp.
It wasn’t like he did anything bad to her. That’s what Parker has told himself until today. She just lay there, but she didn’t say no. She didn’t say anything at all. Just closed her eyes and let him do whatever he wanted. Maybe it would have been better if he’d been drunk. Or she had one of those Oxys floating through her system, making her mellow and loose.
Now he sees himself for who he really is. There’s not much he can do to fix things, but …
He sends another text to Miranda. I’m really sorry for what happened. Sorry for everything.
People aren’t going to come to his funeral and say Parker was such a stud. If he’s lucky, they might say he died trying to save his sister. If he’s not lucky, they’ll talk about all the times he’s been a jerk.
Beca
use he’s been a bad guy way more times than he’s been a good one.
It’s okay, Miranda texts back. Neither one of us was our best self that day.
“Best self.” He likes that thought. Like being better is still possible.
A sudden metallic bang, like someone just hammered on a piece of sheet metal, makes him jump. And it didn’t come from out in the corridor, but instead from high on the other side of one of the workroom walls. He holds perfectly still, but all he hears is some faint scrabbling.
He unfreezes long enough to text Miranda. Did u hear that bang?
Someone here tried to get out thru vent. Too small.
Even though it’s not even an avenue of escape that he thought of, the news makes Parker feel like another weight has been placed on his heart. They’re never going to get out of here.
He tries to envision the mall’s layout, to picture where Culpeppers and Van Duyn are and where their storerooms might lie in relation to each other.
I think ur on other side of my wall, he texts Miranda.
So near yet so far, she texts back, with some ridiculous smiley face sporting a hat and a beard. He’s not even sure what it’s supposed to mean, but it still makes his lips twitch, before he remembers how alone he is.
Parker is sitting on his heels, trying to write a text to his parents, backspacing and deleting and searching for the right words while snuffling back tears, when another text from Miranda pops up.
Hang tight. My dad said SWAT team coming.
When? he texts back. Is it really possible they might survive this?
Soon. He said stay hidden so we don’t get shot by accident.
OK. Thx, Parker replies, then goes back to trying to find the right words to text his parents. But maybe he doesn’t need to make them perfect. Maybe he’ll be able to talk to them instead. Maybe he’ll …
Suddenly a loud noise fills the air as something shoves him from behind. Parker is thrown onto his hands and knees.
And the knife is behind him, out of reach.
PEOPLE LIKE YOU
5:07 P.M.
Miranda’s headache has gotten worse as her body falls deeper into withdrawal. It’s like she’s in a cartoon, like her skull’s pulsing with every beat of her heart. Javier is lying with his arm over his eyes. In the corner, Cole and Grace are talking quietly. Even if they are trading their favorite conspiracy theories, Miranda’s just glad Grace has stopped crying. Amina is hunched over her phone, her thumbs flickering.
So is Miranda. She’s answered messages from her friends. And from her mom, who’s freaking out. Miranda’s been angry at her for so long, but now that’s melted away. For the last half hour, they’ve been texting variations of “I love you” back and forth. Miranda figures if those end up being her last words, they’re pretty good ones.
She’s also been messaging with Parker. What happened a few weeks ago was both their fault. Each of them thinking they were using the other to get what they wanted. Leaving both of them with less than when they started. Afterward, Miranda tried to tell herself it had been worth it. And when she swallowed that next yellow pill, it even felt kind of true. Still, until today she has hated both herself and Parker for what happened.
Coming so close to death has helped her to let go. To forgive. To be thankful that, at least as of right now, she and the others hiding are all still alive.
And SWAT will come soon. She holds tight to the thought.
Can’t wait to get out of here, she texts Parker.
His reply comes a second later. So you can forget?
No. So I can remember.
“Who are you texting?” Javier asks. He’s taken off his apron and rolled it up and is now using it as a pillow.
“My friend Parker.” She points in the direction she thinks he is. “He’s in the Van Duyn workroom with his sister. The killers bike-locked the doors shut. He says they pulled some kind of metal gate across the open end of the hall and trapped everyone.”
Amina blows air through pursed lips. “I saw some guy in a hard hat installing that folding gate last week. I didn’t even wonder why.”
“You can do pretty much anything if you look official,” Cole says. “If you wear a lanyard and carry a clipboard, no one asks too many questions.”
A text from Matthew pops up. In her mind’s eye, Miranda sees him: sleepy blue eyes, long dark hair caught up in a man bun, a trace of stubble on his jaw. When he holds her in his muscled arms, he’s tall enough that she can tuck her head under his chin. She loves that feeling.
Where r u babe?
She was supposed to be at his apartment about a half hour ago.
Hiding in Fairgate. OK so far.
???
Haven’t you heard the news? But Matthew’s not exactly a news kind of guy. The only current events he keeps up on are the street prices for various drugs.
No.
Bunch of people shot at mall. I’m OK. 5 of us hiding in Culpeppers. SWAT coming.
r u joking?
Sadly, no.
His next text is a four-letter word, and then nothing more. Miranda waits for a declaration of love, or at least an expression of anxiety, but there is none. Maybe Matthew just can’t get in touch with his feelings.
Or maybe they don’t go much past vague annoyance at this disruption to his routine.
Despite how much her head hurts, Miranda realizes she’s seeing things more clearly than she has in months. Matthew knew the basics of what happened with Parker, but he never protested. He simply took the money Parker gave her and handed Miranda pills in return. Matthew isn’t her boyfriend, the way she’s tried to tell herself. He’s not even really a friend.
He’s her dealer. That’s the plain truth of it.
Stiffening her spine, Miranda makes herself spell everything out, literally and figuratively. If I get out of this alive, then I’m done. I don’t want to see you.
After she hits the send key, she feels lighter. Even her head feels better. As she deletes Matthew from her contacts and blocks him on everything, she tunes into Cole’s whispers to Grace.
“Who knows what’s really in immunizations? Look at all those kids with autism. That can’t be a coincidence.”
Javier lifts his arm from his face and pushes himself up on his elbows. “Do you really believe that? In Mexico, babies die because they didn’t get no immunizations.”
“You think Americans are really any better off?” Cole retorts. “It’s just not as obvious how bad things are here. Corporations like Pfizer and Monsanto are the ones actually running this country. Politicians take their millions and look the other way while they poison everything: our food, our air, our water.” His stormy gray gaze goes from one person to the next. “People need to wake up and open their eyes.”
“And what would they see?” Miranda asks.
“That people are dying.” A muscle flickers in Cole’s jaw. “Six months ago, my dad died because he ate a hamburger.”
Amina had started fiddling with the computer. Now she looks over, her eyes wide. “A hamburger? Did he choke or something?”
“No. The meat was contaminated with E. coli. None of the antibiotics worked, because the government lets factory farms use them to fatten up animals, and all the bacteria have gotten resistant. My dad died just so chickens and cows can grow a little bit faster.”
Grace gives Cole’s hand a squeeze, but he doesn’t seem to register it.
“My brothers were deployed when both my parents died, but after they got discharged they helped me see the truth. Which is that the people in charge don’t want us to know what’s really going on. But pretty soon, the government will dissolve, and FEMA’s going to start running things. And if you don’t like that idea, they’ve already got over eight hundred camps ready to send you to. They’ve even got boxcars for moving people, just like the Nazis did.”
“Okay,” Miranda says slowly. “So there’s this massive conspiracy. And no one knows about it or talks about it.”
“
Right.” Cole nods. “That’s how conspiracies work.”
“So how do you know about it?”
“My brothers told me. But you can see videos of FEMA camps on YouTube.”
Cole clearly believes what he’s saying, but Miranda sees the flaw in his argument. “How come if the government’s so evil and clever, it hasn’t managed to pull the videos from YouTube?”
He raises his chin. “Maybe they would rather leave them up so that they can monitor who watches them. So they can build cases against us to say that we’re crazy and paranoid.”
Or maybe he really is crazy and paranoid. But Cole has lost both his parents. No wonder he’s angry. No wonder he sees conspiracies.
“You think this government is corrupt?” Javier takes his feet off the desk drawer and sits up. “You should try living in Mexico. If you pay enough in bribes, no one can touch you.”
Cole doesn’t appear to be listening. Instead he points at Javier’s back. Miranda follows his finger. Javier’s shirt has ridden up. Tucked into the back of his pants is a—
“You’ve got a gun!” Miranda exclaims.
Javier shakes his head. “I don’t.”
“Don’t lie!” Cole says.
Pulling it out of his waistband, Javier holds it loosely, pointing down at the floor. “It’s not a gun, dude. It’s a toy. I took off the orange tip. It only shoots BBs. Not bullets.”
“Let me see it.” Cole holds out his hand and Javier gives it to him. He hefts it, then holds it in front of him and closes one eye as he aims past them.
Even though she knows it’s fake, to Miranda the gun still looks real, heavy, and serious. “What’s the point of having a gun that isn’t real?” Miranda asks. Everyone has heard about kids gunned down by cops because they were waving around fake guns.
“Protection.”
“From what?”
“Where I live, a lot of Mexican guys my age are in a gang. You can get killed for being in the wrong gang. Three months ago, my friend got shot just because he was an Eighteenth Streeter and he ran into some Paso Robles Boyz. And this is what happened last time I said I didn’t belong to no gang.” Javier uses his hands to part his thick black hair, revealing a two-inch-long scar. “So if things go bad again”—he takes the gun back from Cole and returns it to his waistband—“this could help change their mind.”