Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Everything hurts.
The cold comes up through the floor, through the thin blanket, and straight into my bones. Each breath is like swallowing broken glass, rattling wet in my chest. Light filters through the broken windows. It’s weak but it still stabs into my eyes.
The factory smells like rust and mold and something sour I’m afraid might be me. Somewhere above, wind whistles through gaps in the roof. Water drips in a steady rhythm, hitting metal, each ping echoing through the empty space.
Is it morning? It has to be morning.
School. I need to get to school.
There’s a clean shirt somewhere. I washed it in the restroom sink at the gas station last night, wrung it out, and hung it on the radiator to dry, while I lurked and hoped no one would question me until it was dry enough.
It’s important to look clean, and not give anyone reasons to look too closely.
Where is it?
The room spins when I try to turn my head.
“Get up.” My voice comes out wrong. Rough and hoarse.
The coughing hits hard enough to double me over. When I wipe my mouth, my hand comes away wet and red. I stare at it for a moment, blood bright against my palm, before my legs give out. The ground rushes up and slams into my knees.
The factory walls blur, water stains morphing into faces I don’t want to see.
Mom on the bathroom floor. Blood on her lips from coughing, bright red against her too-pale skin. Her hand reaching for mine.
“I’m fine, baby. Go to school. Don’t give them a reason to send people out to check on us.”
Backpack. Where’s my backpack?
There’s a history test first period. Edwards notices when people miss tests. He notices everything.
But my legs won’t hold me, and I hit the ground hard, palms stinging when they impact the floor.
Try again.
This time I make it to my knees before the room tilts. My hands find the wall, and I try to pull myself up.
“Hold her still.” Rick with a needle. Mom crying. “Don’t you want your mom to feel better?”
His fist coming at my face. Mom in the corner, staring blankly.
“Think you’re special with your homework? Worthless. Just like your junkie mother.”
No. That’s not now. That’s before. Get up. Focus.
The sunlight makes my eyes water.
What time is it? I can’t be late.
Coughing tears through me again, worse this time. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The ground is so cold, but my skin burns.
Everything burns.
I press my forehead against the wall, trying to find something solid to hold onto, but the world keeps spinning, while time slips away.
My legs won’t work right. The floor keeps moving, shifting under me like it’s alive.
I crawl toward where I think I left my backpack, and the movement sets off pounding in my head.
My shirt. It was hanging to dry … somewhere? Yesterday? Today?
Keep my head down. Keep my grades up.
Mom’s eyes turning glassy. The needles. The pills scattered across the bathroom counter.
“Just try it, baby. It makes everything stop hurting.”
My throat burns. The blanket is soaking wet—sweat, maybe blood. I’m freezing, shaking so hard my teeth rattle.
When did I last eat? Yesterday? The granola bars—when did she give me those?
Backpack. I need my backpack.
I pat the ground around me, searching. My eyes won’t focus. Everything blurs. Time fractures. Light changes. Shadows move across the walls.
The fever paints pictures. Mom’s face. Rick’s fists.
No. Focus. School.
I make another attempt to stand and keel sideways. My head hits the wall, sending new waves of pain through me.
Mom is signing papers at the rehab center. “Last time, baby. I promise, I’ll do it this time.” She’s back three days later, eyes empty, hands shaking.
Footsteps echo through the factory. Real? Not real? I don’t know anymore.
“Oh my god!” A voice. Female. The words come out choked and scared. Why is she scared? “Oh my god, Ronan.”
I force my eyes to open. She’s standing in the doorway, one hand over her mouth, the other reaching for the wall like she needs it to stay upright. The girl from history class. The note girl.
Phare. My lighthouse.
Her eyes are huge, filling with tears as she looks at me. At the blood on my lips, my shirt. The way I’m curled on the ground, shaking. She makes a sound, something between a gasp and a sob.
“I knew something was wrong when you didn’t show up this morning.” Her voice shakes. “I came straight from school. I waited. I thought maybe you were just … but you weren’t, and I—” She presses both hands to her mouth.
She’s across the room in three quick steps, and drops to her knees beside me. Her hand reaches for my forehead. The touch is cool against my burning skin, and I jerk back, hitting my head again.
“Don’t.” The word rasps out between coughs. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re burning up.” Her hand hovers in the air between us, fingers trembling. “How long have you been like this?”
“Need to get to school.” I try to push myself up, but my arms don’t work. “Can’t miss the test.”
“School ended an hour ago.” Her voice is gentle, like she’s talking to something wounded. “It’s almost six.”
“No.” Coughing steals my voice again. When it finally stops, I force out more words. “I have to … Edwards’ test …”
“You missed it.” She shifts closer, slowly as though I might bolt. “You’re sick. You have a fever. You need help.”
“Had worse.” The room won’t stop spinning. Everything is tilting, but I have to make her understand. “Just need to—”
Her hands catch me as I lurch to my feet. I try to pull away, but my body isn’t working right. It won’t do what I tell it.
“Stop fighting me.” Her voice sounds far away. “Ronan, please. Let me help you.”
“Can’t miss school.” The words slip out from between chattering teeth. “Only place that makes sense. Only thing I’ve got.”
Her hand touches my face again. I try to move away, but everything hurts too much.
“I know.” Her voice breaks slightly. “I know school matters to you. But right now, you need to let me take care of this. Okay? Can you do that?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. There’s silence for a long time. I’m not sure if she’s still here or gone, or maybe just a fever dream. But then rustling reaches my ears. Movement. And something hot touches my lips. The smell cuts through the fog in my head. Chicken broth?
“Here. Just a sip. Please, Ronan.”
“No.” But my throat is raw, burning with every breath, and I’m so cold my bones ache with it.
“It’s just broth. It’ll help.” Her voice is patient, coaxing. “Small sips. That’s all. I’ve got you.”
The cup touches my lips again. The heat of it alone makes something in my chest loosen. I take a sip, barely more than a swallow. The liquid burns going down, but it’s a good burn. Different from the fever. It soothes the broken glass feeling in my throat, and spreads warmth through my chest.
Her hand supports the back of my neck when my own strength fails, keeping my head tilted just enough to drink without choking. The gesture is so gentle it makes my eyes sting.
“That’s good. You’re doing good.” She helps me take another sip. Then another. “Just a little more.”
“Mom used to …” The words slip out before I can stop them. “When I was sick. She’d make tea with honey. Before—”
Don’t. Don’t tell her things. Don’t let her in.
But the memory is already there, impossible to ignore. Mom’s hand on my forehead, checking for fever. Her voice humming something soft while she waited for the water to heat. Back when she was still Mom, before the pills turned her into someone else.
Something soft and warm settles over me. A blanket. A real blanket, thick and heavy, not like the threadbare thing I currently use. The weight of it pins me down in a way that should feel claustrophobic, but doesn’t. It’s warm. So warm.
She tucks it around my shoulders, then down my sides.
“It’s just us against the world, baby.” Mom’s voice echoes from years ago. Before the pills. Before Rick. Before the needles. When she still tucked me in at night and meant it.
“You need medicine.” The girl’s voice pulls me back.
“No pills.” My gaze focuses on her palm, and the little white tablets there make my stomach turn. “Saw what they did … made her forget …” The words turn into another coughing fit.
“It’s just Tylenol.” Her voice is so gentle it hurts. “For the fever. Nothing else, I promise.”
I want to fight more. I want to make her leave, push her away before this costs me something else I can’t afford. But everything is going dark at the edges, and I’m so tired.
So tired of being cold.
So tired of fighting.
“Why are you here?”
She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is thick. “Because you weren’t at school. Because I … I was worried about you.”
“Nobody worries.” The fever strips away the walls I’ve built, and makes the truth too easy to share. “Nobody sees anything. And nobody cares. Just gotta … I need to—”
“I see you.”
Three words. That’s all. But they hit hard.
I try to look at her, but my vision is fading at the edges, dark spots creeping in. Her face swims in and out of focus. There are tears on her cheeks.
When did she start crying?
“Ronan?” Her voice sounds far away now, like she’s calling from the other end of a long tunnel. “Please stay awake. You need to take these first. Please.”
I want to answer. I want to tell her something … what, I don’t know.
Thank you, maybe. Or leave. Or don’t tell anyone.
But darkness pulls me under before I can form the words. The last thing I feel is her hand in mine. It’s small, and warm, and steady, anchoring me while everything else slips away.
The last thing I hear is her voice, breaking on my name.
“Ronan. Stay with me. Please stay with me.”
Consciousness slips away. I try to hold on—to her voice, to her hand, to the warmth of the blanket—but it’s useless.
Rick’s voice echoes from somewhere far away.
“No one’s gonna save you, kid.”
Maybe he’s right.
The last thought I have before everything goes black is that I missed the test.