says, “but not on my watch. Either call Adam, or I’m on my way.”
“I can’t just leave my car here,” I say, at last finding a foothold on clarity.
“That’s not important now! We can get it in the morning.”
I let out a long sigh. My wife’s got me beat in the persistence department. Has the stubborn down pretty well, too. After a few seconds, I relent and say, “Okay, I’ll get a hold of Adam.”
“Call me when he’s there,” Jenna adds, then without allowing me a response, hangs up.
I scowl at the phone, but in all honesty, she’s right. I probably shouldn’t be driving—it’s just that suddenly, and for reasons I can’t explain, bad vibes are rocking through me. I don’t like this place. I need to get out of here.
In my car, the throbbing resumes behind my ears with ferocious intensity, followed by skull-crushing tension. I lean back against the headrest and pray for deliverance from this pain.
My phone rings.
“Is Adam there?” Jenna asks.
“Well, no . . . not yet.”
“What? Why?”
“Honey, please. We just got off the pho—” But as the dashboard clock comes into focus, my reprimand grinds to a scrambling halt. Forty-five minutes have passed.
“Chris?”
“Yeah,” I answer, a little too rushed, a little too distracted, and then, “He’ll be here soon.”
“But he should already be there by now. What’s taking him so long?”
What’s taking him so long is that you never called, because you took a nap instead.
“He’ll be here soon,” I say again for lack of a more reasonable response. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
To avoid further explanation, I hang up, then take one last look at the tree resting downhill and obscured beneath shadows. The wind takes a sudden shift through the branches, opening them up like wide, outstretched arms. But this is no welcome—this is a warning.
A swath of red moves out from behind the tree. I get a fix on it but can’t believe what I see. The teenager I nearly hit earlier is running away, and the farther he goes, the more his image becomes lost in the cover of night.
A vile sensation claws its way through my stomach and up into the back of my throat. And I know—without a second of doubt or a moment of hesitation—that there is indeed something terribly wrong with this place.
You’ve got to get the hell out of here.
I have to get out of here.
I turn the ignition key, slam the gas pedal, and before I know it, I’m flying up the road.
14
I make it home in one piece.
My body does, anyway. As for my mind, that’s becoming more questionable by the minute. I’m not a medical doctor. I’m a damned psychologist, and that doesn’t make me anywhere near qualified to determine whether I should drive with a head injury—it only makes me impulsive and thoughtless.
When I walk into the kitchen, Jake is lying on the floor asleep. He stirs, flicks his attention at me, then withdraws, appearing lethargic and detached.
“You okay, boy?”
The dog lifts his head, gives my leg a gentle nudge with his nose, then with chin resting on paws, stares absently ahead. Troubled, I watch him for a moment, but something dark on my pant leg distracts me. I inspect closer and find a muddy splotch.
I look back at Jake. His nose is covered in mud.
There are two problems here. First, I know his nose was clean just a moment ago. Second, I’ve got no idea where the muck could have possibly come from. Arizona is in a drought, and while I may or may not have seen rain before my accident, everything I’ve witnessed since has been bone dry.
I return to Jake and flinch. His nose is clean.
Before I can reason my way through this unsettling mud quandary, Devon darts into the room. He throws his arms around my legs, forcing my weight to shift abruptly, which sends an instantaneous stab of pain through my side. Now I’ve got bruised ribs to contend with, and as the initial shock wears off, I’m aware that more troubling injuries from the accident
“I can’t just leave my car here,” I say, at last finding a foothold on clarity.
“That’s not important now! We can get it in the morning.”
I let out a long sigh. My wife’s got me beat in the persistence department. Has the stubborn down pretty well, too. After a few seconds, I relent and say, “Okay, I’ll get a hold of Adam.”
“Call me when he’s there,” Jenna adds, then without allowing me a response, hangs up.
I scowl at the phone, but in all honesty, she’s right. I probably shouldn’t be driving—it’s just that suddenly, and for reasons I can’t explain, bad vibes are rocking through me. I don’t like this place. I need to get out of here.
In my car, the throbbing resumes behind my ears with ferocious intensity, followed by skull-crushing tension. I lean back against the headrest and pray for deliverance from this pain.
My phone rings.
“Is Adam there?” Jenna asks.
“Well, no . . . not yet.”
“What? Why?”
“Honey, please. We just got off the pho—” But as the dashboard clock comes into focus, my reprimand grinds to a scrambling halt. Forty-five minutes have passed.
“Chris?”
“Yeah,” I answer, a little too rushed, a little too distracted, and then, “He’ll be here soon.”
“But he should already be there by now. What’s taking him so long?”
What’s taking him so long is that you never called, because you took a nap instead.
“He’ll be here soon,” I say again for lack of a more reasonable response. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
To avoid further explanation, I hang up, then take one last look at the tree resting downhill and obscured beneath shadows. The wind takes a sudden shift through the branches, opening them up like wide, outstretched arms. But this is no welcome—this is a warning.
A swath of red moves out from behind the tree. I get a fix on it but can’t believe what I see. The teenager I nearly hit earlier is running away, and the farther he goes, the more his image becomes lost in the cover of night.
A vile sensation claws its way through my stomach and up into the back of my throat. And I know—without a second of doubt or a moment of hesitation—that there is indeed something terribly wrong with this place.
You’ve got to get the hell out of here.
I have to get out of here.
I turn the ignition key, slam the gas pedal, and before I know it, I’m flying up the road.
14
I make it home in one piece.
My body does, anyway. As for my mind, that’s becoming more questionable by the minute. I’m not a medical doctor. I’m a damned psychologist, and that doesn’t make me anywhere near qualified to determine whether I should drive with a head injury—it only makes me impulsive and thoughtless.
When I walk into the kitchen, Jake is lying on the floor asleep. He stirs, flicks his attention at me, then withdraws, appearing lethargic and detached.
“You okay, boy?”
The dog lifts his head, gives my leg a gentle nudge with his nose, then with chin resting on paws, stares absently ahead. Troubled, I watch him for a moment, but something dark on my pant leg distracts me. I inspect closer and find a muddy splotch.
I look back at Jake. His nose is covered in mud.
There are two problems here. First, I know his nose was clean just a moment ago. Second, I’ve got no idea where the muck could have possibly come from. Arizona is in a drought, and while I may or may not have seen rain before my accident, everything I’ve witnessed since has been bone dry.
I return to Jake and flinch. His nose is clean.
Before I can reason my way through this unsettling mud quandary, Devon darts into the room. He throws his arms around my legs, forcing my weight to shift abruptly, which sends an instantaneous stab of pain through my side. Now I’ve got bruised ribs to contend with, and as the initial shock wears off, I’m aware that more troubling injuries from the accident
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