And then, the whistling. “The Long and Winding Road.” It was being whistled directly into my ear.
I ran for my life, forgetting everything other than my own survival. I sprinted straight ahead—away from the voice—barreling through the fog, certain at every moment that I would run right into the waiting arms of my tormentor, Steven Nell. I looked over my shoulder, to the left, to the right. There was nothing but the mist. The unforgiving, unrelenting mist.
As I kept running, an awful thought began to scratch at the back of my mind. What if I ran right into the Shadowlands? But no. It wasn’t possible. I needed a coin to open the portal. My only hope was to stay on the bridge. To keep going. If I kept going, maybe I’d find Joaquin or Tristan or Nadia—someone. Anyone who could tell me how to find my way back.
I was panting. About to pass out. How long had I been running? How long did I have to go before I—
“Rory, honey, stop.”
“Mom?”
I tripped. My knees hit the metal roadway with a jarring slam. I gasped in relief. I’d heard my mother’s voice. I’d heard her. I sucked in a few breaths, my lungs on fire, and tried to focus, pressing my palms into the grooved metal ground. I took comfort in its very existence. At least it was familiar. It was something real.
“Mom?” I pushed myself up again, turning around in circles. “Mom?”
“…which way is she…”
“…doesn’t know…”
“…so naive she is, so very…”
“…straight ahead, honey. Straight ahead.”
Something moved in the mist, and I ran toward it. “Joaquin?” I paused and gathered myself, squinting. Suddenly I smelled something familiar. The spicy scent of Tristan’s shampoo. I felt his presence as clearly as if he were standing beside me, holding my hand. It was as if I could hear his heartbeat.
“Tristan?” I said, my voice cracking. “Tristan, is that you?”
There was a clearing up ahead. I could almost see. Was it the portal to the Light? The Shadowlands? Was it Joaquin? Tristan? Was my mother really here? I ran as fast as I could, holding on to hope, trying to blot out the fear. But as I ran, something pulled at my hair. Not the fog, not the rain, but something alive. Long, hungry fingers reached for me, snagging in my hair, trying to drag me back. The harder I ran, the farther they reached, now scratching at my ears, now whisking against my cheeks.
“…don’t go, don’t go, we can’t let you go…don’t go, don’t go, we can’t let you go…”
“Help me!” I screeched. “Someone, help me!”
I stumbled forward, my lungs burning. All I could feel were my feet pounding the ground and fear coursing through my veins. I ran and I ran and I ran until the rain suddenly battered my face—and I collided with Joaquin.
“Rory?” he said, grasping my elbows. “Oh my god. I thought I’d lost you.”
“You’re here!” I threw my arms around him and hugged him. “You’re all right!”
Joaquin cupped the back of my neck with one hand and tilted his head into my hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
When I finally got control of myself, I looked up, over his shoulders. The others were still standing there, in the exact same poses they’d been in when we left. I looked over my shoulder at the bridge, disoriented. I’d run in a straight line, hadn’t I? How could I have come back to the exact spot I’d left?
“I don’t understand,” I said, grasping Joaquin’s jacket as I tried to calm my racing thoughts. “How long were we gone? How long were we in there?”
“Three seconds,” Bea replied. “What the hell did you see?”
Joaquin and I locked eyes. I shook my head. I’d run for at least five minutes. Maybe ten. After three years of cross-country races I knew how to judge the length of my run.
“He wasn’t there,” I said, unable to imagine trying to explain what had gone on inside the mist. “He wasn’t…He wasn’t there.”
Joaquin held me to him, his arms locked tightly around me as the rain consumed us. Then, through my wet lashes, I saw a flash of pink, and suddenly Krista was running through the muck in our direction.
“Krista? What’s wrong?” Bea called out.
“The mayor sent me to get you. She’s losing it, guys,” Krista said, gasping for breath as she braced her hands over her knees. “You better come back. Like, now.”
Standing under the same white party tent we’d used for Krista’s anniversary party almost a week ago, which had been erected over the flagstone patio behind the mayor’s house, we could hear the patients inside getting ready to move out. Between the pane dividers on the French doors, I saw the mayor hovering over a map of the town with a few visitors, explaining where to go as a group headed to the front door. The clinic was emptying.