But he was shaking his head, his actions slow and skeptical. Despite everything he’d said, he hadn’t been entirely convinced. He remained where he was, transfixed, and he saw the same thing I saw.
It did heal. Same way as before. First the flow of blood around my palm became a mere trickle. And then the wound began to mend itself. To close, until there was nothing but the streaks of blood to indicate it had ever existed at all.
Tyler was still shaking his head when the agent lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “We have a situation here,” he stated numbly, his eyes as wide as Tyler’s. “I repeat,” he said, this time taking an entire step back from us, “we have a . . .” His eyes dropped again to the blood that had dribbled down my arm. I didn’t know this guy, but if I had to guess, I’d say something about me or my cut had frightened him. “We have a Code Red,” he finished.
He lowered his weapon. “Come with me, son,” he said to Tyler, using the barrel of the gun as a pointer, indicating Tyler should step away from me too.
When we heard a door opening at the front of the store, the agent stopped backing up and whispered to Tyler, “It’s too late for both of us.” And then he closed his eyes and lifted his gun to his temple.
I gaped at him, at the scene unfolding in front of me, wondering what the—
But Tyler didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my hand, the one without the newly healed cut on its palm, and he dragged me. We were running when we reached the door that led to the alley, and were still running when we spilled out into the narrow, garbage-filled street, to his awaiting car beyond.
Running away from the earsplitting sound of the gunshot that came from the bookstore behind us.
We sat dazedly in Tyler’s car while we tried to collect ourselves after what we’d just witnessed, which we still weren’t entirely clear about. Had that agent really just shot himself?
Tyler recovered before I did. I wiped the blood on my already-stained jeans and stared blankly out the windshield at the quiet street beyond, trying to take a page from Tyler, the way he seemed to be able to channel that silent inner calm whenever he was thinking. It was hard, though. I wasn’t like him.
Are you sure? I silently asked, my brows pinching together as I nervously gripped the cell phone he’d handed me. I’d already tried calling my dad again, convinced it would be easier to explain things to him since he already believed half the stuff I had to say.
Turning to my mom was an entirely different story. She’d always been more practical than he was. She was all about facts and numbers and puzzles—things that made sense. Things that were normal and fit and didn’t disturb the status quo.
Things unlike my dad and his alien conspiracy theories. And surely unlike a daughter who was no longer like everyone else.
Tyler clutched my hand. It’ll be okay, his squeeze assured me.
I glanced down at the scribbling on my damp palm—the one I hadn’t cut—surprised that the marker had survived all the perspiration and blood and scrubbing with Wet Ones. The numbers were blurred around the edges, but it was still my handwriting, exactly the same as it had always been—reassuring considering so much else about me wasn’t.
I checked the time and then dialed hastily, before I could change my mind. Holding my breath, I waited to find out if Tyler was right or not.
Even though no one said hello when the phone stopped ringing, I knew it had been answered. “Mom?” My voice was timid and shaky.
“Kyra? Oh my god, where are you? I told you to stay home.” Her words came out in a rush, her relief audible.
“Mom, I need you to listen to me. There were these guys from the National Security Agency who came to the house—you can’t trust them. I can’t explain why right now, but you have to believe me. They’re after me, and they want to hurt me.” I looked to Tyler for strength before going on. I choked on a breathy chuckle. “I know it sounds like I’ve been drinking from Dad’s crazy Kool-Aid, but what I’m saying is true. These guys are bad, Mom. Don’t tell them anything.” When she didn’t respond right away, I asked uncertainly, “Mom? Did you hear me?”
There was a pause, and then my mom repeated, her voice quieter, more hesitant than before, “Where are you now? I . . . I can come get you.”
I heard someone else then, in the background. It was Tamara Wahl. “Is Tyler with her? Ask her if Tyler’s with her. Is he okay . . . ?” It was strange, the way her voice warbled, and I knew even without seeing her that she’d been crying. The end of her sentence trailed off, like she’d been dragged away from the phone.
It was all so weird, I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“I—I can’t tell you where I am right now.” I shifted, intentionally avoiding Tyler’s attentive gaze. And then things started to click into place. “He’s . . . he’s not there now, is he? The NSA guy I was telling you about?”
“Kyra, please. He says you need help.” Her voice cracked when she tried to talk this time, and I could hear her trying not to fall apart the same way Tamara Wahl had. “He says you were infected with whatever that guy from Skagit General Hospital had. He says you’re contagious.” She was shouting now, and I didn’t know if she was shouting at me or just shouting because she wanted me to pay attention to her. “He says you’re a danger to others, Kyra! He says you need to come in right away to be treated—” Her voice broke, and I could picture her covering her mouth.