Gone

Janie takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “All right. I’m grabbing a shower now, and later I’ll head over to the hospital. I suppose you’re coming with me then?”

Cabel smiles. “’Course. I’m your driver, remember?”

11:29 a.m.

Cabel and Janie take the stairs up to the third floor. By the time they reach the double doors that lead to the ward, Janie’s moving more and more slowly until she stops. She turns abruptly and goes into the waiting room instead.

“I can’t do this,” she says.

“You don’t have to. But if you don’t, I think you’ll be pissed at yourself later.”

“If he has any other visitors, I’m leaving.”

“That’s fair.”

“What if . . . what if he’s awake? What if he sees me?”

Cabel presses his lips together. “Well, after what your mother said about his brain exploding, I highly doubt that will happen.”

Janie sighs deeply and again walks toward the double doors with Cabel following. “Okay.” She pushes through and does an automatic cursory glance, like she used to do at Heather Home, to see if any of the patients’ doors are open. Luckily, most are closed, and Janie’s not picking up any dreams today.

Janie approaches the desk, this time with confidence. “Henry Feingold, please.”

“Family only,” the nurse says automatically. His name tag says “Miguel.”

“I’m his daughter.”

“Hey,” he says, looking at her more carefully. “Aren’t you that narc girl?”

“Yeah.” Janie tries not to fidget visibly.

“I saw you on the news. You did a good job.”

Janie smiles. “Thank you. So . . . what room?”

“Room three-twelve. End of the hall on the right.” Miguel points at Cabel. “You?”

“He’s—” Janie says. “He and I. We’re together.”

The nurse eyes Janie. “I see. So. He’s your . . . brother?”

Janie lets out a small breath and smiles gratefully. “Yes.”

Cabel nods and remains quiet, almost as if to prove to Miguel that he will behave despite being completely unrelated to anyone in the vicinity.

“Can you tell me what his condition is?”

“He’s not conscious, hon. Doctor Ming will have to give you an update.” Miguel gives Janie a look of sympathy. A look that says, “Things are not good.”

“Thank you,” Janie murmurs. She sets off down the hallway with Cabel close behind. And when she opens the door . . .

Static. The noise is like top-volume radio static. Janie drops to her knees and holds her ears, even though she knows that won’t help. Bright colors fly around her, giant slabs of red and purple; a wave of yellow so shocking it feels like it burns her eyeballs. She tries to speak but she can’t.

There’s no one there. Just wretched static and blinding lights. It’s so painful, so void of feeling or emotion, it’s like nothing Janie’s ever witnessed before.

With a huge effort, Janie concentrates and pulls hard. Just as she feels herself pulling away, the scene blinks and clears. For a split second, there’s a woman standing in a huge, dark room, and a man sitting in a chair in the corner, fading as Janie closes the door on that nightmare.

Janie catches her breath and when she can see again and feel her extremities, finds herself on her hands and knees just inside the doorway of the room. Cabel’s right there beside her, muttering something, but she’s not paying attention. She stares at the tiles on the floor and wonders briefly if that dream, that chaos, is what hell might be like.

“I’m okay,” she says to Cabel, slowly getting to her feet, dusting invisible floor-dirt particles from her bare knees.

And then she straightens. Turns.

Looks at the source of the nightmare, and sees him for the first time.

The man who is her father. Whose DNA she carries.

Janie sucks in a breath. Slowly, her hand goes to her mouth and she takes a step backward. Her eyes grow wide in horror.

“Oh, my God,” she whispers. “What the hell is that?”

WHAT THE HELL IT IS

Still Friday, August 4, 2006, 11:40 a.m.

Cabel puts his arm around Janie’s shoulders, whether to show support or to keep her from bolting from the room, Janie doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. She’s too horrified to move.

“He looks like a cross between Captain Caveman and the Unabomber,” she whispers.

Cabel nods slowly. “Whoa. That’s some funky Alice Cooper frizz.” He turns to look at Janie. Says, in a soft voice, “What was the dream like?”

Janie can’t take her eyes off the thin, very hairy man in the bed. He’s surrounded by machines, but none of them are attached, none turned on. He wears no casts, no bandages. No gauze or white tape.

Just a look of incredible agony on his face.

She glances at Cabel, answers his question. “It was a strange dream,” Janie says. “I’m not even sure it was a dream. It was more like a nondream. Like . . . when you’re watching TV and the cable goes out. You get that loud, static, fuzzy noise at full blast.”

“Weird. Was it black-and-white dots, too?”

“No—colors. Like giant beams of incredibly bright colors—purple, red, yellow. Three-dimensional colored walls turning and coming at me, coming together to make a box and closing in on me, so bright I could hardly stand it. It was awful.”