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Any Sign of Life

Rae Carson
Chapters (25)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. March 13
  4. March 14
  5. March 15
  6. March 16
  7. March 17
  8. March 18
  9. March 19
  10. March 20
  11. March 22
  12. March 24
  13. March 25
  14. March 26
  15. March 27? 28? I’m losing track
  16. Late March?
  17. Surely it’s April by now
  18. April-ish
  19. I swear this is the coldest, cloudiest April ever
  20. April showers bring May flowers, or so I’ve always been told
  21. Not even an alien shroud of greenish clouds can keep daffodils from blooming in Ohio. They’re everywhere now.
  22. About the Author
  23. Books by Rae Carson
  24. Back Ad
  25. About the Publisher

Cover

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Dedication

For Kristine and Sky

March 13

I LURCH UP FROM THE BED, GASPING FOR AIR. IT TAKES SEVERAL breaths, several heartbeats, before I’m aware how badly my head hurts. Like I have the worst hangover of my life. Which makes no sense. But my mouth is parched, my tongue swollen, my teeth rancid, like something crawled up in here and died.

What the hell? I try to swallow, but my throat snags on itself, making me gag. The gagging becomes coughing—hard, dry waves that feel like they’re splitting my ribs open.

Relax, I tell myself. Breathe through your nose. Relax, relax, relax.

The coughing stills, and I catch my breath, head tilted back like Coach D taught me. The ceiling fan of my bedroom is motionless. A single fly buzzes around the wooden blades.

I swing my legs over the bed and set my feet on the floor, blinking to clear eyes that are as arid and hollow as skeleton sockets. I try to stand.

Something bites at the back of my hand, and I lift my other hand as if to smack a bug, but I freeze, palm raised. It’s an IV. The entry site is swollen, bloodless, and aching, like a giant hive. The clear IV line stretches up to a 1000 ml bag hanging from a pole. It’s daisy-chained to several identical bags. They’re all wrinkled like raisins, empty of fluid.

I don’t remember getting an IV.

Everything is bright and hazy, silent except for that stupid fly. I peer toward my alarm clock, which is a small plastic basketball with a wedge cut out for the digital insert. My eyes don’t want to focus, but through sheer force of will, I make them.

4:17 p.m. I should be on the court with my team.

No, I remember now; I went to bed right after dinner. So I’ve been asleep almost twenty-four hours.

My throat had been hurting all day. Something about my depth perception had been off, too. At practice, I missed two bounce passes from Shawntelle; both times I put my hands out to catch the ball, but it sailed right past me. Hey, I hear the JV team has room on the bench, Shawntelle teased.

Later, at the table with Mom and Paul and Ryan, my whole body started to ache, and I knew with a sinking feeling that I was getting the flu. The one that had put half of Columbus out of commission. Even though I’m completely up-to-date on my flu shots. Mom had made my favorite, baked mac and cheese with garlic bread, but I went to bed without finishing dinner.