I stood, releasing the swing’s chains, my hands numb from where my fingers had pressed the links so deep they’d engraved my palms.
Behind me the swings screamed, metal grating and howling as chains twisted in the same breeze that tugged my hair out around my face, teasing my vision with Pietr’s image and then nothing. I wrenched the hair back from my eyes, hunting and hungry for another glimpse of him.
He filled my vision and I gasped at his nearness, heat washing across me, radiating off his smooth skin. The frigid sting of fall was forgotten, winter but a weakly whispered rumor as Pietr wrapped me in his arms and crushed his hungry lips to mine.
Jessie
The morning shuffle to breakfast was agonizing. My head throbbed and my mind raced. I cheeked my pills, got jabbed for blood, and my stomach rebelled when faced with what passed for food. I pushed it around my tray, building strange shapes with it.
“So. Jeremy. Fred,” I addressed the silent hulks. “Fred. Jeremy.” I switched the faces the names corresponded with. Not so much as a blink of reaction. Did names matter to zombies? They were like—undead, right?
Maybe living impaired? Life-abled? There was bound to be a politically correct, self-affirming term for every brand of strange thing prowling Junction.
The fact I wondered made me even more certain I needed to get out of Pecan Place. Fast.
But who else was there to talk to—uh—talk at?
“Are you happy? I mean, seriously happy? When you look at your life—erm—your existence—do you say—yep. This is where I want to be right now? Because, honestly, this”—I waved the bastardization of a spoon and a fork around to symbolize encompassing the entire facility—“was not a stop I’d scheduled on the agenda of my life.”
“You neither, huh?” A tray clinked down on the table.
Fred and Jeremy bristled a moment, then relaxed. The same guy I’d seen watching me stood just across the table from me. “May I?” he asked, motioning to the seat.
“Yeah. Whatever. I’m almost done.”
“That’s too bad,” he said. “I was hoping to talk.” He looked around the room, eyes pausing on the gradually increasing number of people who sat, either tranq-ed up or restrained, aides spooning almost the same amount of food in that spilled out of their slack-jawed mouths. “You seem most likely to be capable of holding up your end of a conversation.”
I blinked at him.
“I’m Christian.”
“Congratulations. I’m Undecided.”
He chuckled. “My name’s Christian.”
“Ah. I wondered why you were announcing yourself according to religious affiliation but here”—I glanced around the room meaningfully—“you never know exactly what people think’s most important.”
His smile widened into a grin. He appeared nearly sane.
Appeared. Appearances weren’t everything … and I still got that vibe that something just wasn’t quite right with him.
Go figure. It was like I was in an asylum or something. So should I adjust my standards based on location? I paused, listening to the warning buzzing in the back of my head.
“I’d say nice to meet you,” I concluded, “but I’d prefer to reserve judgment on that until the statement seems justifiable. Jessica.”
“Charming,” he said with obvious sarcasm. “But very logical considering location and circumstances. I’ll bridge the gap and give you the benefit of the doubt. It’s nice to meet you, Jessica. I’ll even go so far as saying I hope to see you later today.”
“That’s only because I don’t drool on myself. Normally.”
He shrugged. “We all adjust our standards here.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. No. Not me. Adjusting my standards felt like letting my guard down.
“Let’s go, boys,” I said to Fred and Jeremy and we headed down the hall so I could start laundry detail.
Jessie
Back in Dr. Jones’s first-floor office—I had to presume she had something similar in the basement, too—I was bored with the same line of questions every session. More than some therapeutic retreat, Pecan Place felt like a holding tank of some sort.
“How are you doing today, Jessica?”
I stuck with our plan, behaving and waiting on Dad’s lawyer. “Pretty well. I’ve been trying to think things out better. To have more faith that what people are trying to do is in my best interest.”
Dr. Jones nodded.
“I’ve been journaling. Since there’s nothing to read,” I hinted, thinking about the fact she still had the book Pietr had intended for me, Bisclavret.
She scribbled down a note.
“You’ve been quite prolific with your writing.” She pulled something out of her drawer. “Jeremy and Fred brought this from your room.”
My journal. “Okay,” I said slowly. “Did you read it?”
“Of course.” She paused, looking up from my journal to stare straight into my eyes. “You don’t like me.”
I paused. “If you actually believed my writing you’d figure I don’t like many people.”
“Except Pietr.”
Oh. God. Every bit of my exposed skin turned sunburn red. I’d been very—liberal—colorful—passionate—about expressing my feelings for Pietr. “I love Pietr,” I said, justifying my writing with the blanket admittal.
“Are you missing mental stimulation here?”
“Yes. And my family. And friends.”
She slid the journal out of her way and flipped a page on the clipboard. “Fred and Jeremy also reported that you spoke to one of our newest clients: young Mr. Christian Masterson. What are your impressions of him?”
“Why? Are you looking for a new diagnosis?”
“Sometimes clients who aren’t a good mix will mix, anyway. It’s best if we identify potential problems immediately.”
“I don’t foresee us mixing.”
One of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. “Hmm. Here’s the book the boy left for you. And your journal. I want you to write about your feelings regarding the death of your mother for a few entries. Since that is our focus here.”
“Fine,” I said, taking Bisclavret and the journal and heading for the door.
“And Jessica, if you do well these next few days, I’ll arrange for you to have a more private room.”