Read Online 23 Minutes by Vivian Vande Velde - Free Book Online Page A

close she came to getting killed. Or by the thought that she has no more left to give. She cannot bring herself to go back. Surely no one—God, the universe, even Daniel himself—could expect her to try again after that.
    One way or another, Daniel will die within the next twenty-three minutes, and probably a whole bunch of other people will, too.
    All she’s accomplished is to get to know Daniel a little bitbetter than simply as the sweet, nameless bank customer who died within moments of being kind to her.
    It’s not fair, it’s not fair , she thinks, covering her face. She doesn’t want him to die; she doesn’t want herself to die.
    Someone has laid a hand on her shoulder. “Miss,” a voice says. “Hon. You all right?”
    Not Daniel’s voice.
    Never again Daniel’s voice.
    Zoe looks up.
    The biker guy walking his Chihuahua has stopped and is leaning down to look at her with a solicitous expression. The Chihuahua is yapping at her, dragging its leash through the folder and the papers that are littering the ground around her knees, doing an excellent job of shuffling and spreading them.
    After what’s just happened, it’s hard to be concerned about that.
    She hears the biker guy answer someone, “I don’t know. She just fell. I was looking right at her, but I didn’t see what happened.”
    A small crowd has gathered. The department store saleswoman, the one who once told her the time, slows but does not stop.
    The girl with the cell phone that does not have unlimited minutes asks, “Is she all right? Should I call 911?”
    â€œNo!” Zoe practically screams at her.
    Everyone freezes, except for glancing at each other from the corners of their eyes. See that? everyone seems to be silently asking. Oh yeah , everyone mentally answers. Don’t let her get excited …
    Zoe doesn’t want to sound like a crazy person. Been there, done that, as part of the awfulness of being thirteen. Never again, she’s promised herself. She forces her voice into a calmer register. “Sorry,” she says. She doesn’t exactly sound normal, even to her own ears,but she keeps working at it. “I just mean …” One final steadying breath. “There’s no need for that. I’m fine. Really. Thank you for your concern.” Strangers. Strangers are acting concerned. About her. She doesn’t remember that ever happening before. In her experience, strangers are oblivious. Or casually cruel. She’s not exactly sure what to make of this new experience, but the feeling is not unpleasant.
    Cell Phone Girl still looks a bit scared of her. “OK,” she says, and resumes walking. And talking on her cell phone.
    Zoe says, “I just … twisted my ankle.” She tries to force a laugh, but it comes out more of a snort. “Wow, did I go down fast.”
    The biker guy pats her shoulder.
    With his tattoos and his full beard and his chain jewelry, he probably finds her , with her ragged blue hair and Guns N’ Roses t-shirt, kind of drab and average-looking.
    The others who have stopped to see what was going on—now that they’ve caught a closer look at that blue hair and slightly seedy clothing—no doubt have her pegged as a clumsy street kid who likely fell because she’s on drugs or alcohol. Back on familiar ground , Zoe thinks.
    But not entirely. They don’t all dismiss her. The biker guy and the younger of the two fast-food place guys and a woman wearing pants with a pattern that should absolutely not even be legal—except, maybe , in Hawaii—are gathering her strewn-about papers for her. Trying to help. With no likely expectation of gain. The Chihuahua just generally gets in everybody’s way. Still, the papers are no longer important to Zoe—well, they are , but they aren’t. In any case, she doesn’t have the heart to tell these nice people, “Never