“Emma, can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” she breathed. She tried prying her lids open. They felt sewn shut, and she had to work to make her muscles obey. Then the darkness peeled away, and she winced against a stab of silver-blue light. “Bright.”
“Sorry.” The featureless blot of the boy’s head and shoulders moved between her and the snowmobile’s headlight.
“Better?”
“Uh,” she said, and swallowed, waiting for her stomach to slither back down where it belonged. It was only then that she realized he was on his hands and knees, peering through a window. The van had flipped. She was lying on the roof. Or was it the ceiling? She couldn’t think. What was the last thing she remembered from this world? The sensation of whizzing through space, a free fall, and then the bang as the van plowed into something nose-first. Her back had slammed the windshield, and she’d rebounded, flying past the steering wheel, her shoulder clipping the driver’s side headrest as she shot for the rear window, as Lily screamed and screamed.
“Lily?” Her voice came out in a weak little wheeze. “Lil?”
“Hey.” The boy squirmed in, sloshing through gasoline until his face was right up to hers: so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. “Hey, look at me, stay with me. Here,” he said, lacing his fingers around her left hand. “Feel that? Remember me? Eric?”
“Yes, I … I do. I remember.” It took a lot of work and concentration to swallow. “But where’s Lil?”
“We need to get her out of there.” Another boy, a voice she didn’t recognize. “That gas isn’t stopping. I’ve never seen so much gasoline. How much you think this thing holds?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Eric tossed the words over his shoulder, while his eyes never left hers. “You guys got a blanket or maybe a first aid kit? She’s bleeding pretty bad.”
“First aid kit in the trunk,” the boy said again. “Hang on.”
A girl’s voice: “I’ll come with you.” The boy and girl moved off, their voices dissipating like smoke.
“You’re going to be okay.” Eric’s grip on her hand tightened. “I’ve got you now, Emma. You just keep looking at me. Don’t worry about anything else, all right? Can you tell me what hurts?”
Everything? “My head. Chest. Hurts to breathe. I think I hit the steering wheel.”
“Might be nothing more than a bruise. What about your neck?”
“Eric.” She swallowed back against another tidal surge of nausea. “Where’s Lily?” When he hesitated, she thought, Oh God. “Lily … she … she’s dead, isn’t she? I got her killed, didn’t I? Where is she? Is she”—ignoring the knifing pain in her neck and shoulders, Emma tried to turn her head—“was she thrown or is she still …”
“Emma, does it really matter? Seeing won’t change anything.”
No. She used her eyes the way she might her fingers, tracing the shape of his nose, that line of jaw, tangling in hair that was wavy, black, and thick. Even in the gloom, she could see the deep blue of his eyes. You don’t understand, Eric. Seeing is believing. Seeing changes everything. Aloud, she said, “Thank you for not leaving us.”
“Not the way I’m made.” He cupped her cheek. “Come on,” he said, gently. “Let’s get you out of here.”
CASEY
Dead Man’s Shirt
“OH BOY.” TONY was kneeling in deep snow by the Camry’s rear tire. “This is not good.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” said Casey, smearing ice from his cheeks. He grimaced as snowmelt trickled down his neck to soak the collar of Big Earl’s shirt. Casey hadn’t wanted the thing, but his was shredded, cut to ribbons by Big Earl’s switch, and blood-soaked to boot. At first, shrugging into Big Earl’s oversize flannel had been like slipping on the slack, discarded husk of a gigantic python, and just about as pleasant. The thing was a little better now, but that wasn’t saying much, all things considered. The shirt felt … squirmy. Not alive, exactly, but every now and again, he thought he could feel it actually moving in tiny creeps, as if trying to worm into and wrap itself around the muscles and bones of his much smaller, slighter frame. Which, of course, was crazy; the thing was just a dead man’s shirt. Still … he could feel his skin flinch and cringe, withdrawing the way cats slithered low to the ground when they just didn’t want to be touched. He shrugged, wincing as old flannel raked raw flesh and clotted blood. “Man, that tire’s flatter than a pancake.”
“Wh-what happened?” said Rima, doing the freezing person two-step. “I thought you were being c-careful.”
“I was, but …” Tony sighed, his breath huffing in white steam the wind grabbed and tore apart. “If I had to guess, I’d say one of these downed spruces. Branches are sharp as spears. Probably drove over one buried under the snow.”
“Do you have a spare?” asked Emma, shivering. Gasoline didn’t freeze, and she and Eric were drenched, the stink hanging over them in a noxious cloud. Tony had dredged up a space blanket for her, but it didn’t seem to be doing much—not that this broke Casey’s heart or anything. “Or maybe a pump you could run off the battery?”
“The car’s buried,” Casey said, impatiently. Idiot. She looked like hell, too. In the flashlights, the shock-hollows beneath her eyes were purple smudges. Wouldn’t let Eric touch the gash on her forehead, but had bandaged it herself. Not such a hot job either. She also seemed kind of out of it: like she zoned every so often.
She’s probably high. Big Earl’s voice misted over his mind. Or drunk. Probably why she crashed.
Now, he’d had Big Earl in his head about as many times as he’d slid into the old fart’s clothes. Like never. The fact that he did hear Big Earl now should’ve freaked him out, but Casey was surprised to find that he was more … interested.
“Look,” Casey said to Emma, “you can change the tire five times, if that’ll make you happy. Even if you manage to get the tire to reinflate, take a look around. Snow’s way too deep. There’s no way this car’s going anywhere.”
“Wow,” Rima said. “N-n-negative often?”
“No.” He wanted to smack her, and this was also a new impulse. Big Earl had been the one to hit first and never ask questions later. “I’m just saying.”