by Marina Cohen
Silhouetted against the disk of the setting sun, a shadow rose. Quinn had to squint, but there was no mistaking him—the crazy man with the ball cap. He’d followed them. He’d found them. A small animal sound escaped her lips.
She mustered her strength and found her voice. “Get up!” she hissed. “We have to run. Now!” She pulled Kara to her feet. They took a few steps then stopped. Kara collapsed like dead weight. Quinn pulled with all her might and managed to get Kara back on her feet.
The man walked toward them steadily, drawing nearer by the second, bearing down on them like a bulldozer.
“Stop,” he snarled.
Quinn managed to get Kara moving again. They weren’t fast, but they hobbled as best they could along the path. The interstate was just ahead. Quinn could see a piece of it around the bend. If they could just make it to the road, someone would see them. Some car would stop and they’d be saved.
All the while, the hum grew louder and louder in Quinn’s ears. It nearly drowned out the man’s yelling. It sounded like an engine—a diesel engine getting closer and closer.
“Wait!” the man yelled.
Quinn didn’t hear him. All she heard now was the hum. All she saw was the road—getting closer. She pulled Kara with all her strength and together they made it to the shoulder of the interstate.
Headlights approached. Quinn could see the bright beams coming straight out of the burning sunset. Something was headed toward them, toward Norm’s Diner. If they could just catch a ride they’d get there. This was their chance.
Quinn slipped her arm under Kara’s. She had to get to where the vehicle could see them. She had to stop it.
Whatever it was, it approached at high speed. The lights grew blindingly bright and Quinn had to shield her eyes. The closer it got, the louder the hum became. Whatever was coming toward her was the source. The source of the bright lights. And the hum.
She stepped out into the middle of the road, dragging Kara along with her. She waved frantically with her free arm, hoping to get the driver’s attention, hoping he or she would see the two girls and stop.
As it drew closer, Quinn could see it clearly. A huge eighteen-wheeler—fully loaded, thundering toward her. She let go of Kara and waved wildly, flapping both her hands, along with Kara’s, so hard she thought they might just take flight. The driver had to see them. There was no way he couldn’t.
The truck was only half a block away when Quinn realized something was wrong. Its speed wasn’t changing. It wasn’t slowing down. Instead, it barreled toward Quinn and Kara at lightning speed, heading straight for them. Straight at them.
Quinn shut her eyes as the light enveloped her entire body and the sound exploded in her mind. The truck was going to hit them head-on.
26
QUINN HUGS HER ARMS to her chest. Her cheeks flush scarlet. Embarrassment and anger battle inside her.
“I have to stay late,” she says, biting off each word.
Emma stares. Her shoulders sag. “Why? What’d you do?”
“Never mind,” snaps Quinn. Her voice lashes like the November wind. “I just have to.”
Emma sighs. She lets her orange backpack—the one with the huge smiley face—slip from her shoulder. It thunks to the ground by her once-white-now-gray sneakers. “I’ll wait for you.”
Kara is hurrying to catch her bus.
Quinn grabs her arm. “Sorry,” she mutters.
Kara casts Quinn a withering glare. “You should never have asked me.”
“Kara,” says Quinn, but Kara’s already rushing to make her bus. “I’ll call you,” Quinn yells after her.
Other kids from Quinn’s class walk past. They look at Quinn. Some whisper. Some giggle.
Tears burn at the back of Quinn’s eyes. She frowns hard and licks her dry lips. She wants to yell—tell them not to gawk, not to be so nosy. Instead, her anger forms a fine point. It flies like an arrow toward Emma.
“Go home.” She digs the house key from her pocket and holds it out.
Emma draws back. “I can’t walk by myself. Neither can you.” She’s wringing the pink cap in her hands, twisting it tighter. Tighter.
“Don’t be such a chicken. Just go home.” Quinn thrusts the key into Emma’s hand.
“This isn’t a good idea,” says Emma, refusing to close her fingers on it. “You know the rule—we have to walk together.”
“No one’s gonna know,” snaps Quinn. “Not if you don’t say anything.”
Emma shifts from side to side. “How long will it take you? I can wait by the office doors. I’ll sit right here. Or—I can wait on the climber in the park.”
Anger and frustration explode from Quinn. “I don’t want you to wait for me, okay? I’m tired of you always hanging around me. Can’t you do anything by yourself?”
A hurt look washes over Emma. She deflates like a leaky beach ball. Her fingers curl slowly around the key.
She waits a moment longer, as if hoping Quinn will change her mind. When Quinn says nothing, she places her cap on her head, picks up her backpack, and slings it over her shoulder. With one last look at her sister, she turns and walks away.
The sun is fiercely bright. Quinn squints as she watches Emma head through the parking lot and onto the sidewalk.
She is suddenly sorry. She wants to call Emma back. She wants to yell Don’t go! but another group of sneering kids pass her.
Quinn watches as Emma’s pink cap moves farther and farther through the crowd, until it disappears into the blazing sunset.
She dives forward, but she can’t move. The light is too bright. It stabs at her eyes. She struggles wildly. Her heart thuds in her chest.
Emma! I’m sorry!
There’s nothing but light now. Pure white light. It wraps itself around Quinn. It squeezes the last breath from her lungs.
Emma! Come back!
Emma …
I love you!
27
A ROARING WHOOSH tore through Quinn’s body as the vehicle flew past her. Flew through her. As though it were a great and powerful metallic ghost.
Quinn’s eyelids fluttered. Before the ghost truck disappeared, leaving her standing helplessly in the middle of the deserted road, she’d caught sight of something that wrenched her thoughts, twisting them into a giant ball of confusion.
In the same instant, hands grabbed her shoulders and yanked. She tumbled onto the side of the road, rolling to a stop with Kara practically on top of her.
She felt his shadow before she saw him. He loomed over her, sharp features, glaring eyes. The image shattered her mind, smashing it to a billion pieces that drizzled down around her and fell to the dust like the tiny shimmering shards of a dream.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said the man.
Quinn drew Kara in close, shielding her with her arms, as if looking at him might turn them both to stone. “You’re not here. You can’t be.”
He continued as though he hadn’t heard her, his voice breathy and tired. “I had to find you. I had to tell you all. I needed you to know.”
Inch by inch, Quinn backed away. Somehow she had to get control of herself. She had to get Kara to her feet. Get her away from this man. From this … ghost.
“I never meant for it to happen.” His words were so thick he had to choke them out. “I swear it. I never meant—”
“Get away from us,” said Quinn. “You’re not here. You can’t be.” Her thoughts scrambled this way, then that, desperate to cling to anything that made sense. How could this man be standing in front of her when he was driving the truck—the truck with the blinding lights and the engine with the hum so loud it nearly split her brain? How could he be in two places at the same time?
“Please,” he said.
Quinn paused long enough to look into his eyes. And for the first time, they didn’t seem crazy. Instead, they were filled with a sort of anguish—a deep and powerful pain tangled and mangled and mashed up with grief, a feeling Quinn understood all too well.
> “Please,” muttered the man, extending an arm. “Forgive me.”
Quinn scrambled to her feet and heaved Kara up with all her might. Slowly, they backed away. “Leave us alone.”
Quinn turned, and with Kara leaning into her, they hobbled in the direction of the diner. In the direction the ghost truck had fled.
“No,” said the man, following them. “Don’t go there. Not that way. You don’t want to see.”
Quinn ignored him and kept walking. Her world had shifted. It was not the same place it had been a moment ago. She knew now this man had no power over her. He was not what she’d thought he was. He couldn’t hurt her. And he couldn’t stop her.
They neared the top of the hill and froze. In the distance, Quinn heard it—a blast of horn, a screeching of brakes, and engines colliding in a sickening clash of metal on metal. And then nothing. Silence. The hum had exploded and then stopped. The vacuum it left had sucked all the sounds of the world along with it.
Quinn hugged Kara and forced her to move. She had to get to the top of the hill. She had to look down, to see it with her own eyes. If she didn’t, she’d never know it was real.
The man kept pace, a few steps behind. “I was tired,” he muttered, his voice soft and low, as if he were telling some long-forgotten tale. “My son had just gotten the diagnosis. I was trying to spend as much time at the hospital as I could, but we needed the money so I had to work. I was so tired. I wanted to stop. I called dispatch but the guy told me to get a cup of coffee, walk around the truck, and then keep driving. He said the tomatoes wouldn’t keep—that I had to get them to the warehouse in Salt Lake City by morning. I told him I wasn’t safe to drive, that I needed to rest. Just a few hours. But he said that wasn’t the way the company rolled. He said I’d lose an entire week’s pay if those tomatoes spoiled. We needed the money. I should have stopped. But the tomatoes…”
His words faded to a whimper. There was no threat left in him. Nothing about him could frighten Quinn anymore. She should have felt better, safer, only now a new fear spilled toward her—something much worse. What would she find if she looked down? What was at the base of the hill?
The silence was so thick it was strangling. Step by step, she moved upward, gasping for air. The last sliver of sunlight was fading from the sky. In the patches of deep purple and blue, Quinn could see black dots circling, swooping. Turkey vultures.
Then the silence was broken. Sirens came from both directions, converging on the spot. They frightened the birds, scattering them to the wind.
“What’s happening?” asked Kara. “Where are we going?”
Quinn didn’t answer. She just pulled Kara forward, each step heavy and painfully slow, until they reached the edge of the hill. Summoning every ounce of courage in her, Quinn looked down, silent witness to the chaotic scene below.
Kara’s parents were there. Her father was on a stretcher, eyes open, wearing an oxygen mask. One paramedic attended to him, while two others bandaged Mrs. Cawston’s head. Josh was on a stretcher as well. He was awake and his mouth was moving. He was alive and talking. They were all alive.
Kara’s mouth opened but no sound came out. She straightened herself, taking it all in. “Look,” she said softly.
Quinn followed her gaze to where she and Kara lay on the road. Paramedics were trying to revive them, but it didn’t look hopeful. It was the last piece of an intricate puzzle. It was the reason why they were still here, why Mr. and Mrs. Cawston and Josh were not.
Kara’s eyes filled with tears. “Forever?” she said in a choked whisper.
Quinn gripped her hand. “Forever,” she echoed.
“Untie them!” shouted one paramedic to another, and a woman quickly severed the friendship bracelets—the threads that had kept Quinn and Kara bound together.
Quinn looked at her wrist. The ghost bracelets were still tied—a bond forged by so many shared moments. So much laughter, so many tears. Words that never needed to be spoken and thoughts exchanged without uttering a single sound. No scissors made of metal could cut this tie.
“You won’t leave me, right?” said Kara. “No matter what?”
Quinn drew Kara in close and hugged her. She would not lose Kara like she’d lost Emma. No matter what it meant, no matter what the cost, she wouldn’t make the same mistake.
“It was my fault,” Quinn said, her voice trembling under the weight of the words she lifted one by one from her conscience. She heaved them out into the open air of the desert’s fading sun, like dirty laundry she’d washed clean and hung to flap on a line for the world to see. “I’m the one who made her go home alone. Emma is gone because of me.”
Kara lifted a pale, withering hand. She placed it gently on Quinn’s shoulder.
“She wanted to wait for me,” said Quinn, sobs filling the gaps between her words. “She said … she said she should wait, but I was so angry—at myself—at everyone—it all rushed out at Emma and I couldn’t stop myself. I told her to go. I told her I didn’t need her. I called her a chicken. And she left school alone because of me. She was stolen because of me.”
Hot tears spilled down Quinn’s cheeks. Tears of pain. Of longing. Of frustration. And hatred. Hatred for the person who had taken Emma. And hatred for herself for what she’d done. For what she could never take back.
Kara pulled Quinn toward her. She shook her head. “It wasn’t you.” Her chest heaved in and out in ragged breaths as she sobbed out her story. “It was me. I’m the one. I should never have given you my assignment. I should have said no to you when you asked me. If only I’d had the courage to say no to you, none of this would have happened. Don’t you see? It’s my fault, not yours.”
Quinn swept a hand bitterly across her burning cheeks. She stared at Kara. Kara had been harboring the same horrible feeling—that Emma was gone and she had caused it. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”
Over her shoulder Quinn saw them. First Persephone and Aides. They joined the man, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, staring thoughtfully, silently, at the two friends. Then the three parted like a curtain, revealing another figure, a small form swathed in twilight. She was still wearing her fall jacket, the pink cap perched upon her head.
Quinn gasped. She sprang to her feet, leaping toward the figure, the name exploding from her lips. “Emma!”
Quinn pulled frantically, but something was holding her to the spot. Not allowing her to move forward, to reach Emma.
“Kara! Get up! Look! It’s Emma! Don’t you see? It’s Emma!” But Quinn could get no closer to the golden silhouette shimmering in the dusk—Kara was dragging Quinn back.
Quinn slipped an arm under Kara, but she had grown too weak to stand.
“Emma!” shouted Quinn, waving wildly. “I told them I saw you! I knew it was you! You were here all along! You came for me! I knew it!”
She struggled to pull herself and Kara closer to Emma. How she’d dreamed of the day she’d see her again—all the things she’d tell her. All the things she’d say. Beginning with sorry. Sorry for what she did—for cheating on her assignment. Sorry for all the things she’d said, for saying that she didn’t need Emma, because she did need her. Oh, how she needed her. She hadn’t wanted Emma to leave. Not really. She loved her. Her heart ached to fly to Emma’s side, to fly into her arms like a bird.
She stopped struggling.
Not-Norm’s warning whispered in her memory. He said he’d dreamed of a two-headed bird. Half the bird was trying to fly. The other half was bound to the ground. She gazed at her best friend—the deep bruises had spread over her body, the hollow circles had deepened around her eyes. They were that bird, she and Kara. Quinn wanted to fly, but Kara was broken. Kara was preventing Quinn from flying away.
“Let Kara go,” said Emma, reaching out a beckoning hand. “It’s time.”
“No,” whispered Kara, her eyes wide with horror. “Don’t listen to her, Quinn. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you. Not ever.”
&nbs
p; “You have to, Quinn,” said Emma. “It’s the only way.”
Quinn volleyed glances from Emma to Kara to the paramedics below. Then, like some tiny object way off in the distance that grows larger and clearer until you can finally make out its true shape, Quinn realized she’d gotten it all wrong. Kara wasn’t the broken one. She wasn’t the one holding Quinn back. It was Quinn that was broken. It was Quinn keeping Kara from returning.
She stared at Kara with watery eyes. She spoke softly. “You have to go back.”
“No,” sobbed Kara, shaking her head. “Don’t do it, Quinn. I won’t go. Just like the tree. If you stay, so do I.”
Quinn looked at Emma. And then with trembling hands she began to pick at the knot. The threads were coming loose, but with all her remaining strength Kara pushed her hand away.
“You promised you’d never leave me,” whispered Kara, gripping Quinn’s hand so tight the tiny bones threatened to break. “Forever? Don’t you remember?”
Tears spilled down Quinn’s cheeks. “Think of your parents, Kara. And Josh. Think of how much they’d miss you. And think of Joe’s brother. Who will save Adam?”
“Adam?” said Kara.
Quinn pulled the final thread free. And then she grabbed both of Kara’s hands, looking deep into her eyes. “We promised we’d help Adam. You have to go back now. You have to wake up. You have to be the one to tell them.”
In the background, Quinn could hear the paramedics shouting more frantic instructions. She didn’t notice if they were about her or about Kara.
“But,” sobbed Kara, “will you … will you come back, too?”
Quinn thought about this for a moment. She looked down at the paramedics trying to revive her. Kara’s parents had left Inn Between because they’d returned. So had Josh. Now it was Kara’s turn. Would she be next? All that time they’d spent in Inn Between had been seconds of real time. Or no time at all. Could she go back, too? She looked at Persephone, who gazed at her steadily. Then at Emma. Then back at Kara. She smiled. “Maybe.”
Kara’s grip tightened. “Please, Quinn.”