The nurse cleared his throat.
Following the surgery, she’d forced herself not to look at her hand. If she looked, it would become real. Too real. At least for now she could convince herself that the nurse was kidding about the pins and screws. And maybe he was. Maybe he got his kicks by stuffing worst-case scenarios into patients’ heads. Besides, pins and screws belonged inside the Frankenstein monster, not her. All she probably needed was an ice pack and enough painkillers to tough out Friday’s gig.
“Done!” the nurse said. “How’s it look?”
Ash inhaled deeply. She shut her eyes, exhaled, and turned her head toward the hand. Then she looked.
And laughed.
She laughed until she realized nothing was funny. At the end of the long white cast was an opening. Her fingers poked through. They were bent and purple, like the heads of a dying hydra. Splotches of black blood had dried underneath the fingernails. The thumb was so red and swollen it could’ve passed for cooked kielbasa.
The longer she looked, the emptier she felt. Her hopes and dreams drained out of her. The Deathgrip gig, her tour dates, her upcoming recording sessions—all were impossible now. Her future became a flipping calendar full of blank white squares. No plans, no purpose, no life.
Tears stung her eyes.
The nurse handed her a tissue. By the time she finished dabbing her eyes, an oily-nosed doctor entered the room and squatted in front of her. First thing out of his smiling mouth was, “Don’t worry. That hand’ll look better after your next surgery.”
She gulped back a scream.
The doc spoke for what seemed like centuries, his words grating. The phrase “surgery and rehab” kept repeating like the chorus of an annoying pop song. All she could think about was her hand and how to fix it. She knew of one way, far from conventional. It would require a trip to her hometown of Hollow Hills, just twenty minutes away.
Something the doc said broke her trance.
“Wait,” she interrupted. “Could you repeat that?”
“Hmm? Oh, that’s merely a worst-case scenario.”
“What is?”
“Well, if you don’t heal properly, we may have to consider…well, amputation.”
She started to laugh again.
Ash wandered out of the ER and visited the hospital pharmacy. She scored a two-week supply of painkillers, but doubted the pain wouldn’t be an issue for long. She had a plan, a solid one that involved a certain creek in her hometown. Snare Creek had to fix her. Otherwise, according to the doctor, it might take months before she could make a fist or grab an apple. That wouldn’t cut it. She needed her fingers wrapped around a guitar neck by Friday.
She took out her phone to call an Uber. Her screen popped with text messages—twenty from Cheeto, as well as some from the other bandmates, including Flanny. Everybody asked where she was, whether she was okay. Thankfully, they didn’t know the specifics about her admittance. At her request the hospital staff had kept things hush-hush. Even the detective she spoke with agreed to suppress the finer details. At first she’d kept everything private out of embarrassment—what would her bandmates think of her without her hand?—but now she needed to stay silent for practical reasons. Once the creek gave her a new hand, she intended to return to her bandmates, no questions asked.
As her Uber pulled up to the curb, she realized she herself had a question.
What if the left hand was already taken?
7
Mountains swelled thick and purple in the distance. They stretched for miles, topped with snow and flanked by highways like the one Ash traveled on now. The good and bad news was that she was heading home. Good because Hollow Hills held the miracle cure for her hand. Bad because her Uber driver drove the most rickety fucking pickup on the planet. Even the smoothest parts of I-81 North sent it quaking, and every bounce, shake, and rumble set off firecrackers inside her new fiberglass cast. Then there were the potholes and his knack for nailing them. Direct hits every time. She barely lasted three minutes before dry swallowing another Vicodin.
The ride eventually became smoother. Somewhat. With the heater blasting her face, she dozed. One minute she eyed the mileage signs and rock walls; the next she dreamed about handsome ER doctors who gushed about the amazing recovery rate of her hand.
The driver nudged her knee and broke her trance. He yipped about Hollow Hills being dead ahead. Rather than driving down the steep exit ramp, he parked on the shoulder and told her to leave. Apparently his brakes were due to give out soon.
Groaning, she grabbed her guitar case and trudged off on foot.
Beyond the exit ramp the road forked. She passed an egg-shaped sign proclaiming Welcome to the Borough of Hollow Hills in cheeky white lettering. Ahead lay Snare Creek Bridge, its guardrails streaked with rust. The metal bridge clicked under the weight of an outgoing SUV; the tremor continued as Ash crossed. She trudged through a stretch of barren forest and entered the muddy heart of her hometown.
At first she thought she’d reached the wrong place. The houses looked shorter, as if they’d spent the past ten years sinking into soggy earth. The air reeked of grime and tasted of woodsmoke. She hadn’t had anything to drink since before surgery, and her throat itched from the smoke. It triggered a series of lung-busting coughs that made her hand throb mercilessly.
Welcome fucking home.
The rough return continued as she passed her hometown’s restaurants. Seeing the How’ve Ya Bean burrito shop triggered some teenage baggage. Same with the Downhill Diner, which still dominated the street corner with its gaudy blue fluorescents. When the front door opened, she caught a nauseating whiff of butter-slathered omelets and home fries. People in the window seats leered at her neck tattoos and elbow-length dreadlocks. In cities like Philly, she looked like any other guitar freak, but here the locals gawked like she was covered in someone else’s blood.
Though she’d intended to continue past, she took a detour and approached the diner’s rear parking lot. The closer she got, the shakier her steps became. Her stomach floated up into her neck. She considered turning back. She hesitated.
At the edge of the building, she took a deep breath and shut her eyes. She pictured the lot empty and harmless, with nothing there aside from cracked blacktop and faded paint. If that were the case, she might finally stop resenting this town.
With a confident stride, she rounded the corner and opened her eyes.
Fuck.
The dumpster was still there, parked between the diner and burrito shop. Thirty years strong and counting. Aside from some fresh graffiti, the scuffed brown exterior hadn’t changed. No new paint, decals, nothing. Its slanted plastic lid hung partway open, leaking a stench that burned her sinuses even from the sidewalk. That stench, in a way, always lingered with her.
She backed away, wishing she hadn’t looked.
Her stomach in knots, she returned to the main road. It snaked through the forest and spat her out at Candace Lapinski’s banquet hall. Ash missed Candace. The woman had been like an aunt to her, sometimes even like a mother.
Beyond the banquet hall parking lot was a dirt trail that climbed into the woods. The trail made for a slippery, painful hike. Ash’s combat boots were built for image, not traction, and she spent more time stumbling than standing. The wind flung her around like a tattered flag until she somehow reached the cover of the barren oaks above.