But before he can finish, I’m gone. Racing across the room, I blow past the exit and make my way up a steep flight of stairs—convincing myself the boys aren’t real, or at least not in the way that I think.
The hallucinations and dreams are merging as one. I just need to get out of here—just need to—
I’m about halfway down the alley when I allow myself to stop beneath the only street lamp that’s lit, where I sag against the wall and fight to catch my breath. My body bent forward, fingers clutching hard at my knees, as slick waves of hot, clammy sweat course under my clothes—thoroughly wetting me.
I yank on my ponytail, pry it away from the place where it clings fast to my neck, and when I return my hand to my knee, my gaze is caught by the stamp I’d failed to notice ’til now:
A red ink coyote with glaring red eyes.
This town holds secrets you can’t even begin to imagine. It is full of coyotes, and Coyote is a trickster you must learn to outsmart.
The memory of Paloma’s words causing me to push away from the wall, fumble blindly toward the street, as the glowing ones surge toward me, their numbers increasing until they surround me.
Having overpowered the herbs, they jump out of windows, leap from shadowed doorways—as the crows swoop down to my ankles and peck at my feet—squawking in outrage as I stumble right over them, turning them to clumps of bloodied feathers that cling to my shoes.
Only a few yards of asphalt lying between the bus stop and me—one double lane road and I’m free.
Free of the Rabbit Hole, this alleyway, this horrible town, the glowing people, the crows, and the boys with the unearthly blue eyes.
I can make it.
I can do it.
I have to.
I’ve no choice.
Never mind that my vision is narrowing, turning everything to bright shining spots that shimmer before me.
Never mind that my legs are wobbly, knees no longer willing to carry me.
I bang into the street, arms outstretched, struggling to see through the glare. My lips moving in a silent plea:
Help me—please—just a few more steps and I’m there!
The sound of tires squealing, voices shouting, now crowding my head. Leaving me blinded, swaying, darting around the shadows dancing before me. My vision filling with bright wavering circles of light as a sudden thrust of hot metal sends me flying, flailing, soaring high into the sky with arms spread wide, raven-like—until gravity hits and the asphalt roars up to catch me in a bed of razor-sharp rocks that slice through my clothes and embed in my flesh—jamming my nose with the stench of burnt rubber, charred skin.
An image of the old black-and-white photo bearing my dad’s smiling face the last thing I see.
His dark eyes narrowed in judgment—disappointed with me.
I didn’t listen to his warning.
I was too focused on the gruesome state of his head back in that Moroccan square to listen to the words he tried to tell me.
And now, because of my failing, I am like him.
Only worse.
I failed to escape.
Failed to find a way out.
And now, because of it, I will die in this town.
the spirit road
twelve