That voice can go fuck itself.
One block away. Everything’s gone quiet. No gunshots, no footsteps. Nothing but the wind.
I arrive at Fourth and Mason. No Ava. No one at all.
“Ava?” I whisper. No answer.
“Ava?” I try again. I don’t want to shout. Icy wind rakes through the damp, sweaty hairs on the back of my neck.
Across the street, there’s a rustle of blinds in one window, but when I turn, they go still. The light turns off.
Maybe she was messing with me. She’ll leap out—Boo!—and laugh while I try to act pissed off. We’ll hold hands and get hot chocolate. We’ll pick up where we left off last summer, before everything got weird.
Given my track record, this seems unlikely.
I search for signs of life up and down the street. There’s not a sound, not a flash of movement anywhere. No cars driving past. No people. My throat closes up with panic.
My eyes snag on a narrow gap between two buildings. An alleyway. As I creep closer, I reach into my backpack and pull out my Taser. The slick plastic is soothing against my sweaty palm. I grip it tighter.
I am not the girl in the horror movie. I’m not.
I grab my flashlight, too, but don’t turn it on yet.
I’m at the mouth of the alley when I hear the faintest wheeze, like a sigh of relief.
“Ava?” I pop the button on the flashlight and flood the alleyway in harsh white LED light.
Ava McQueen is sprawled on the ground. Blood trickles lazily from three bullet holes in her chest and abdomen.
I drop my flashlight. The night has become a vacuum, sucking all the air from my lungs. I scream and scream, but I can’t hear it.
This isn’t happening. Not again.
The world around me turns to jagged flashes. My vision goes black, then flares bright like a lightning strike. Each time it snags on a new, horrifying image.
Three bullet holes smolder in her shearling coat.
A blackish pool grows wider and wider beneath her.
Her eyes dart left and right.
She’s still alive.
My heart slams against the front wall of my rib cage. Everything zooms back into focus all at once, and my mouth fills with warm, syrupy saliva.
I pick up the flashlight and scramble to kneel at Ava’s side. The pool of her blood seeps into the knees of my jeans.
“Ava? Ava!” I turn her face toward me. Her eyes are open, but her pupils are deep, dark holes with no bottom. She can’t see me. I feel for a pulse. It’s there, but there’s a long pause after each beat, like the next one might not come.
“W-w-wh,” she wheezes. “Wess.”
I don’t know if she’s trying to talk, or if this is the sound of life leaving her body. Her lips part again, but nothing comes out this time. My fingers are meaty and useless as I fumble with my phone.
“911. What’s your emergency?” The operator’s voice is cool and crisp. So alien to me, kneeling on the grimy pavement slick with Ava’s blood.
“Hi, yes.” My tongue can’t get out of its own way. “I’m in the alley on the southeast side of Fourth Street between Mason and Deloit. A girl. A girl has been shot. There’s a lot of blood. She still has a pulse, but there’s a lot of blood.” I gasp for breath, and the smell of it rolls over me in a wave. It’s a smell I know. Like iron, and something else. Something rotten.
“Okay.” The woman’s tone is still calm. “An ambulance is on its way. What’s your name?”
“Flora Calhoun.” I try to balance the phone on my shoulder while I claw off my coat and sweatshirt. I lift Ava up—her heavy body lolls in my arms—and slide my sweatshirt around her waist, pulling it tight around her middle. Ava lets out a wet gurgle that makes my stomach roll. “I’m trying. I’m trying to stop the blood, but someone has to come.” I tie the sweatshirt’s sleeves as tight as I can around Ava’s chest. It won’t be enough.
“An ambulance is on its way, okay, Flora?” the operator reminds me. “Now, I need you to look around and give me some more information. Are you safe where you are?”
“I don’t know.” I press both hands to the highest bullet hole, the one above Ava’s heart, where my sweatshirt tourniquet won’t reach. The alley stretches along the backs of the buildings until it reaches Fifth Street on the other side. I see a couple of trash cans, but nothing else.
“I don’t see anyone, but I don’t know.” Ava’s blood wells up between my knuckles. I put more pressure on the wound, but the phone slips from my shoulder and clatters to the ground.
I don’t pick it up.
“Flora? Flora, are you still with me?” The operator’s faint voice calls to me from the phone speaker, but I can’t take my hands away from Ava’s chest.
Someone is on their way. An ambulance is coming.
My flashlight is still on the ground next to me. Half of Ava’s face is cast in light, and the other half in darkness. Her brown skin is gray and ashen.
“Wess,” Ava slurs again. “G-grays.” Her eyes close. They take several seconds to open again.
“Keep talking.” My voice comes out tattered and desperate. “Talk to me, please. Ava. They’re coming. They’re on their way. Please, keep talking to me.”
Her eyes lock on mine. For the first time, she can see me. She knows I’m here.
“Wes Grays.” Her voice is stronger now.
“Wes Grays,” I repeat back to her, even though I have no idea what that means. “I’m right here.”
Ava’s eyes stay fixed on mine, like she’s using all her energy to tell me how serious this is. Wes Grays. I have no idea who that is. Is it the shooter?
Ava sucks in a rattling, high-pitched breath. Her eyes widen with a look of pure terror, but they’ve lost their focus. She can’t see me anymore.
“I’ve got you,” I choke out. “I’m trying, Ava, but you have to hang on a little longer. They’re coming. I promise.”
For once, the universe listens to me. An ambulance shrills plaintively in the distance.
“Hear that?” There’s something wet on my face. Tears. “They’re going to be right here, and you’ll be okay. I promise. Stay with me.”
Ava doesn’t say anything else.
I check her pulse again. I can’t find it. My fingers leave bloody smears on her neck.
Blue and red lights create a sickening strobe on the walls of the alleyway.
“Ava, they’re here.” I paw at her neck for that drumbeat. “They made it. They’ll take care of you. Please.”
Her lips are parted. She’s still wearing the same eggplant lipstick from earlier. It’s a little faded and peeling, like lipstick always gets at the end of the day. The sheer humanness of that detail blurs my vision with fresh tears.
Footsteps behind me, but I don’t look away from Ava’s face. It is so still. Stiller than any living thing should be. The wild terror is gone from her eyes, replaced by a vacant, staring nothingness that is somehow more horrible.
The EMTs shunt me out of the way, and the world is quiet again. I still see, and hear, and feel, but it’s all muted as the EMTs crowd around Ava, as they shout instructions and questions. As they poke and prod at her body, trying to figure out what I already know.