The song had just changed to a hip-hop tune, a raucous, flatly obscene rap. It was a few years old, but still catchy, and had the added attraction of being a song no one in the room had been allowed to listen to three months earlier.
Quinn and Lana danced, even bumped hips a couple of times. Then Hunter changed the mood to a moderately slow, dreamy song by Lucinda Williams. “I love this song,” Lana said.
“I . . . I don’t know how to dance slow,” Quinn said.
“Me neither. Let’s try it, though.”
So they held each other awkwardly and just swayed back and forth. After a while Lana laid her face against Quinn’s shoulder. He could feel her tears on his neck.
“This is kind of a sad song,” Quinn said.
“Do you dream, Quinn?” Lana asked.
The question took him aback. She must have felt him flinch because she looked at his face, looking for the explanation in his eyes.
“I have nightmares,” he said. “The battle. You know. The big battle.”
“You were really brave. You saved those kids in the day care.”
“Not all of them,” Quinn said shortly. He fell silent for a moment, back in the dream. “There was this coyote. And this kid, right? And . . . and . . . Okay, so I could have shot him, maybe, a little sooner, right? But I was scared of hitting the kid. I was so scared I’d hit that little kid, so I didn’t shoot. And then it was, like, too late. You know?”
Lana nodded. She didn’t show any sympathy, and strangely Quinn thought that was a good thing because if it wasn’t you, and you hadn’t been there, and you hadn’t been holding a machine gun with your finger frozen on the trigger, and you hadn’t heard your voice coming out of your throat in a scream like an open artery, and you hadn’t seen what he had seen, then you didn’t have a right to be sympathetic because you didn’t understand anything. You didn’t understand anything.
Anything.
Lana just nodded and put her palm against his heart and said, “I can’t heal that.”
He nodded, fighting back the tears that had come . . . how many times since that horrible night? Let’s see, three months, thirty days in a month, that would make it about a thousand times. Maybe more. Not less, not if you counted the times he had wanted to cry but had plastered on his happy-go-lucky Quinn smile because the alternative was falling down on the ground and sobbing.
“That’s my sad stuff,” he said after a while. “What’s yours?”
She cocked her head sideways as if sizing him up, asking herself if she wanted to share with him. Him of all people. Unsteady Quinn. Unreliable Quinn. Quinn, who had sold Sam out to end up being tortured by Caine and Drake. Quinn, who had almost gotten Astrid killed. Quinn, who was only tolerated now because when it had all hit the fan in the big battle he had finally stepped up and pulled that trigger and . . .
“You ever meet someone you can’t quite forget?” Lana asked him. “Someone who you meet them and forever after it’s like they own a piece of you?”
“No,” Quinn said. He felt a little disappointed. “I guess he’s a lucky dude.”
Lana was so startled, she laughed. “No. Not that kind of guy. Maybe not a guy at all. Maybe not . . . well, not a dude the way you mean. More like someone took a fishing hook, right? Like they took that hook and stuck it in me like I was a worm. You know how on the end of a fishhook there’s this barb? So you can’t pull it out without ripping a big hole in yourself?”
Quinn nodded without really understanding.
“And then, maybe, here’s what’s weird, right: You almost want the fisherman to reel you in. It’s like, okay, you have that hook in me, and it hurts, but I can’t get it out, I’m stuck. So just reel me in. Just get it over with and stay out of my dreams because they’re all nightmares.”
Quinn still didn’t understand what she meant, but the image of a fish, reeled in, helpless, stuck with him. Quinn knew hopelessness when he heard it. He’d just never expected to hear it from the most beloved person in the FAYZ.
The musical tempo changed again. Enough with the slow music, kids wanted to rock out, so Hunter dialed up some techno that Quinn didn’t recognize. He started to move to the rhythm, but Lana wasn’t into it.
She put her hand on his shoulder and said, “I see Albert’s free, and I have to talk to him.”
She turned away without a further word. Quinn was left with the feeling that however bad his nightmares were, the Healer’s were worse.
TWELVE
61 HOURS, 3 MINUTES
THE ARGUMENT WITH Astrid about Albert’s club had not been pretty.
Most nights Sam slept at the house Astrid shared with Mary. Not this night.
It wasn’t their first argument. It probably wouldn’t be their last.
Sam hated arguing. When he added up the total number of people he could really talk to, the number came to two: Edilio and Astrid. His conversations with Edilio were mostly about official business. His conversations with Astrid used to be about deeper stuff, and lighter stuff, too. Now they seemed to be always talking about work. And arguing about it.
He was in love with Astrid. He wanted to talk to her about all the stuff she knew, the history, the math even, the big cosmic issues that she would explain and he would kind of almost understand.
And he wanted to make out with her, to tell the truth. Kissing Astrid, stroking her hair, having her nuzzle close to him, that was all that kept him from going crazy sometimes.