I turn on my heels just as the bell near the door rings again.
And then I hear his voice.
“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!” Gravelly. Desperate. Angry.
I duck to the ground before I can process anything beyond the stolen authority in his voice. But I’ve seen him—his black mask, his green jacket, and the black pistol in his right hand.
And he’s seen me.
My entire body goes rigid, and my heart slams against my chest like it’s about to rip out of me.
The man at the desk is sputtering something inaudible, and the gunman waves the barrel at him and tells him to open the cash register. He casts his eyes quickly over the room. He looks at me again and then toward a woman on her way to the checkout. The snacks and magazines she’d been holding are in disarray near her feet.
“Everyone stay where you are,” he orders, letting his eyes move back toward the cashier shakily pressing a code into the machine.
Fear rises up like bile, twisting my insides and leaving a horrible ache in the back of my throat.
If I could, I’d whisper to Ophelia—tell her to call 911. But I’m in the man’s line of sight, and I’m not sure I’m brave enough to be a hero.
There’s no blood left in my body. My mind is too frantic to think beyond a single thought that repeats itself, over and over again, the pounding of it as loud and desperate as my pulse.
I don’t want to die.
And then I see her in the mirror—the little girl at the back of the room, hidden behind the shelves the gunman can’t see past. She’s looking for her mother—trying to find a way to reach her. Trying to find a way to be safe.
No, I want to shout. Stay where you are. He hasn’t seen you yet.
But I’m too afraid to find my voice.
I wish she could hear me. I wish she could understand that everything will be okay if she just stays still.
But she can’t, and she doesn’t.
The girl starts to crawl to the other aisle, and at first I think maybe she’ll make it, but then some part of her bumps into one of the shelves, and something falls—a box of crackers or a bag of chips—I can’t tell, but I know it’s enough to draw his attention.
It’s enough to make him point his gun.
And for a moment all I can see in that mirror is Mei.
Mei, a child, who needs protecting.
A girl like my sister, scared and alone and in so much danger.
And I run toward the masked man without thinking another thought.
I don’t know if the sound of the bullet comes first or the screams of the girl’s mother, but it doesn’t matter, because they both turn into ringing in my ears.
The world slows. Time slows. I am falling, falling, falling.
And then I’m not.
3
IT’S SO VERY QUIET.
I wonder if this is what everyone feels like when they die.
It’s different than I thought it would be.
But
exactly
the
same
too.
4
THE FIRST THING I SEE when I open my eyes is a bright white light, and all I can think is, Wow, Death, way to be a cliché.
But then my sight adjusts, and I realize I’m not staring at a light—I’m seeing the sky through a glass windowpane.
I’m looking at the sun.
I sit up too quickly, and an ache that feels like a trillion drumbeats throbs behind my eyes. My entire body recoils in shock.
I thought you weren’t supposed to feel pain after you die. Isn’t that a rule? The rule?
I press my temples with my fingers, wondering if I’ve woken up from surgery, or some kind of coma. Maybe the doctors managed to save me. Maybe what I thought was death was just a little bit of general anesthesia.
“How are you feeling?”
I look up and see a woman with short dark hair sitting next to me. Her voice is gentle but not concerned. Maybe it means I’m okay.
I wince as I straighten my back, because every inch of me feels like a battered lump of minced meat. I force my eyes shut to fight the pain and try to imagine something peaceful to tether me to a happy place, but all I can see is the blackness of that gun barrel pointed right at my chest.
When I open my eyes again, the woman is holding a round white pill in her hand.
“It will take away the migraines,” she says with a smile that creases the sides of her mouth.
I hesitate. Uncertainty gnaws at the edge of my mind, and everything inside my head feels like it’s surrounded by fog. I can’t even form a question or make sense of where I am.
I’m not ready for medication.
I shake my head and hope she understands. Right now I need to feel everything. I need to feel like I’m really awake.
She pulls her hand away, and I notice there’s no name tag on her shirt. When I glance up at the rest of the room, I realize it’s unlike any hospital I’ve ever seen. There are no machines, or wires, or beeping noises. The room doesn’t smell like alcohol swabs or sterilized plastic. And everything looks too modern.
Not just modern—it’s bordering on futuristic, I note, taking in the crooked shapes of the windows and the silver doorframes.
And it doesn’t slip past me that there isn’t a bouquet of flowers or a card in sight.
Panic sets in like the sudden onslaught of hail on a sunny day, and every thought that passes through my mind feels like a sharp stab.
Oh God, do my parents not know I’m here? Did I forget to bring my ID? Am I a Jane Doe and nobody even knows I was shot at some crappy gas station in the middle of nowhere? Is anyone even looking for me, or have I been asleep so long they’ve all given up?
I frown. “Did… did anyone call my parents?” I look down at my wrist instinctively, but my O-Tech watch is gone. Ophelia isn’t here to help me, not that there would likely be any charge left anyway. I’m not a medical expert, but I’ve watched plenty of Marvel shows, and even Luke Cage slept for a while after being shot.
Picturing the scar that must be somewhere near my sternum, I touch my chest and find a soft white shirt that definitely isn’t mine. When I look down at the matching bottoms I’m wearing, I wonder what they’ve done with the rest of my things, and if my black dress was covered in too much blood to bother keeping.
The woman tilts her head. “Do you know what your name is?”
“Nami. Nami Miyamoto.” I pause, the worry starting to build like an icy chill across my skin. “My parents are Takeshi and Claire. Did anyone find my bag? Did the doctors know who to contact?” I feel myself flinch at the ache spreading through my skull, but I try to focus. However bad it is, I need to know the truth. “How long have I been here?”
“Not long, Nami,” she replies, her voice so much like a melody. Rehearsed and meant to charm.
I find her eyes. They’re blue, but there’s a brightness to them that’s unnatural. Like they’re in super-enhanced high definition. And then I realize her skin is like that too: luminescent and too perfect.
I let out a breath, but I can’t feel any warmth on my lips.
I remember the way the gunshot sounded like an echo, miles and miles away from me, and the way it felt like I was falling for an eternity, and how I knew without any doubt what was happening to me before I’d even hit the floor.