Marcie
I suck in a glass-sharp breath, and I’m back on the orange couch.
The orange couch? I don’t know an orange couch. I’ve never had an orange couch.
“Hey, I’m here,” someone says soothingly. “I’ve got you.”
I don’t know that voice. Or do I? A thousand voices echo in my head, and I know it’s one of them, but none of the names and times match together anymore. I’m a jigsaw puzzle with all the pieces shaken apart.
Shaking. I am shaking. I was shaking.
“The women took Ryan to the hospital,” I mutter.
“Okay,” someone says. “That makes sense.”
That makes sense. Of course it does.
“They took him to the hospital, but he was dead on arrival.”
I am shaking in a white-walled room. The hospital. No, Mom’s office. Mrs. Evers called her with the news, couldn’t bear to call me directly.
No
