canât feel a switch. I know the concession has two doors: one to the theater and one to the cafeteria supply hall. I can just make out the door to the supply hall from the crack of light that appears under that door.
Iâve heard that people who canât see develop a keen sense of hearing and touchso that they âseeâ their world through the other senses. In the dark, every one of my nerve endings is tingling. I can smell dust. I can smell latex paint from stage backdrops. I can taste the darkness. I reach my hand out in front of me. Nothing. I sweep my hand through the air. Nothing. I take a step.
Immediately, my knee cracks into something hard and metal. I suck in a breath. Whatever I just walked into clatters to the floor. The noise makes me jump back against the door. I laugh because itâs so stupid, what Iâm imagining: that Josh is in here with me.
I stand still and wait for my heart to stop pounding. It takes a long time. Iâm breathing so hard that I canât hear anything else, so I hold my breath and listen.
Now blood pulses in my temples, and I stifle the need to breathe because I can hear him. I can. Not in here. Out there. I can hear someone breathing on the other side of the door.
My throat closes. I want to cough. Donât cough. Donât make a sound. I wring enough spit to swallow.
Itâs too late to hide. Josh knows Iâm in here. Maybe heâs waiting for me to make another move. Maybe heâs giving me a chance to get away, a chance to find somewhere to hide.
Between Josh and me is the supply hall. And beyond the supply hall, hundreds of people hide. Hundreds of people who think theyâre safe. Hundreds of people who thought this morning they were just going to school. Maybe they hugged their little sister. Probably not. Maybe they told their old man they loved him. Probably not.
I fed the dog this morning, I remember now. Our dogâs name is Festus. Heâs a black lab cross we rescued from the pound. He drools when I feed him so I make him wait on his carpet, but this morning I forgot and I stepped in his drool with my bare feet. It was a cold slippery rope that slimed my foot. I wiped my foot on the leg of my jeans. When I dumped his food in his bowl, Festus thumped his tail against the cupboard like a drum.
Thump thump thump
. His dog tags clanked against the metal bowl as he ate, and I thought for the thousandth time, does thatbother him, those tags making such a racket as he eats?
Tomorrow, someone will feed the dog. The day after that, theyâll feed him again. And each time they feed him, the dogâs tags will clank on the bowl, and the dog wonât give a damn because thatâs the way itâs always been. For Festus, itâs normal. For Festus, itâs just what it is.
Tomorrow, someone will feed the dog and itâll be a normal morning. Except their kid will be dead.
In a way, it would be easier if Josh put the gun against my head and blasted me away.
Slowly, carefully, I stretch my hands out in front of me. When I feel nothing, I take a step.
And I trip over whatever crashed a minute ago. I slam down onto my knees. The pain makes my eyes water. On my hands and knees, I fix my stare on the crack of light under the far door. I feel the floor ahead of me for a clear path. I set my hand in something wet. Itâs cold and sticky, and for a second I think of Festus and his drool.
Then it occurs to me. Iâve put my hand in blood.
I bolt to my feet and crash toward the door. I trip, get up, trip again. I feel my own blood soaking one knee of my jeans. In full-blown panic, I reach the door and am scrabbling for the handle when the overhead light comes on.
Chapter Eleven
Instinctively, I cover my head.
âAdam?â
Itâs Zoe. I blink in the sudden glare of the concession light. I look up to see Zoe at the theater door, her face drawn and pale.
Sheâs the most beautiful sight.
She says, âIt