Chapter 9: Across

I woke on a motel bedspread that smelled like bleach and cigarettes.

The curtains were orange.

The clock said four in the afternoon.

Someone had taken my boots off and set them neatly side by side.

My chest hurt.

I lay still and listened to trucks on the highway.

It was very quiet inside me.

For eleven years I'd had the pack in the back of my skull, a hum of eighty heartbeats and eighty scents.

Now there was nothing.

The room was empty, and so was I.

The door clicked, and Emmett came in with a paper bag of burgers and two sodas.

He set them on the table and sat on the other bed.

He looked ten years older than he had that morning.

"How long did I sleep?"

"Six hours."

"Where am I?"

"The Pinecone Motor Inn, off Highway Two. Eleven miles from the line."

"You carried me?"

"You passed out in my arms." He tried a smile. "Very romantic."

I didn't smile back.

"Tell me what happened after."

He rubbed his face.

"Jarrett went down."

"I saw."

"They got him home. The healer worked on him all afternoon."

"Calla?"

"She's sitting with him."

"Is it working?"

Emmett looked at the burger bag.

"He had a fit this afternoon," he said quietly. "Seized for four minutes. The healer says the blood is failing."

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