But which way? Why does every hospital hallway look the same? I walk ten yards south (I think south), but that doesn’t feel familiar. I head back, but . . .

Someone’s coming, the clap of their shoes louder and louder, closer and closer. I duck inside a door marked Maintenance just as the walking stops.

The sliver of hallway light coming from under the door goes dark.

They’re here. Right outside.

I hold my breath. She’s looking for me. A couple of steps, then they stop again. It feels like forever before they leave. I wait for the loud click of the heavy exit doors, then slip back into the hallway, walking briskly in the opposite direction.

I barge into the main lobby—the purple-haired receptionist stares but says nothing.

I exit everything.

The cold night air grabs me by the throat.

I shouldn’t be there.

Q wouldn’t want me there.

A few hours ago, we were ready to end each other.

And even if by some miracle, Q wanted me there, I’m not sure I want to be.

I tap Whit’s number and bring the phone to my ear.

But it doesn’t ring.

No service.

“Hey,” a voice calls out. “Told you he was a fighter.” Q’s paramedics back-and-forthing an e-cigarette in the ambulance bay, next to a No Smoking sign. “Not gonna lie, it looked bad. But sometimes the world breaks good.”

“Thank you,” I say.

She tips her head, a reel of smoke rolling from her lips.

And then I’m dead-sprinting down the entrance ramp, hopping the median. I cut the corner too sharply, and a horn blares, tires squeal, as I nearly kiss the hood of a minivan. If it hadn’t jumped the red-painted curb, they’d be rushing me back inside the building.

“Are you freaking insane?” the driver screams, flipping me off.

I raise my hand in apology, but there’s no time. At the south exit, I spot a black car methodically negotiating the narrow lane.

I barely get my fist on its bumper as the car glides into the street.

It jerks to a stop and I walk around.

The tint on the front passenger window dissolves, Mr. Oklahoma’s silver eyes glaring through the perfectly clear glass. “There can be no more indecision, Mr. Anderson,” he says through the window. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Oklahoma turns back, his window redarkening. The locks click and I slide into the back seat next to Ms. Barrantes. She’s crying, and I’m embarrassed, and I don’t know what to say.

She squeezes my hand.

“Thank you,” she says so quietly it’s as if I merely imagined it.

77

I ask again. “Are we still in Elytown?”

Our headlights impale the darkness ahead.

This far out—with no white noise to swallow it—you hear yourself think, your smallest thought booms like a shotgun.

The world so still you wanna shake it.