I just stared at him.
“I couldn’t find a pulse. Your head wound didn’t look bad, but you had no respiration, no pupil response. You were so cold!” His voice grew ragged. “You looked too young for cardiac arrest, but I thought maybe you’d passed out on your back and the tear gas had made you vomit and . . .”
I finally understood. He was the one who had proclaimed me dead.
“Where did you find me?”
He blinked. “In the airport, with the other bodies. Everyone thought you were dead.”
“It’s okay,” I told him softly. “I think you were right.”
He stared at me, terror in his eyes. Maybe he thought I was going to sue him, or that someone would revoke his license over this.
Or maybe he believed me.
* * *
At the hospital there were beds lined up, a squad of doctors and interns waiting for the flood of wounded. But, as everyone soon realized, there was only one survivor. Just me, out of all those people.
By the time they rolled me into an examining room, I could sit up. My blood pressure and body temperature were normal, my pulse steady, and the blue tinge of hypothermia had faded from my skin.
Shudders kept rolling through me, but after the doctor put six stitches in my forehead, he declared that I didn’t need anything but fluids. He was most confused by how little the tear gas had affected me. Nothing but an inflammation on one cheek, where that single tear had somehow burned my skin.
The paramedic who’d pronounced me dead brought a cup of hot water and lemon to me. Then there was a call that casualties were coming in, and for a few minutes I was left alone. It was a car accident, I think, nothing to do with the airport, but the staff was keyed up by the news blaring from a radio. People in scrubs hurried past my door.
I blew on my hot water, blinking at the antiseptic whiteness of everything. It was so noisy back here in reality, buzzing and chaotic. The paper cover on the bed crinkled. A black plastic widget clipped to my fingertip transmitted my vitals to a small screen, where they pulsed in colored lights.
Exhaustion was creeping over me, but I was too wired to sleep. Besides, on this narrow bed with its slippery paper cover, I’d probably roll off onto the floor.
I wondered if anyone had called my mother and told her I was alive. They hadn’t even asked my full name yet.
My hand went to my pocket. But my phone was gone. Of course, I’d dropped it. I sighed and zipped my hoodie closed over my sliced T-shirt. At least no one had put me in a hospital robe. Maybe they would just let me leave.
I had no ride, of course, or much cash, and my luggage was back on the plane. . . . My mind spun away from everything that had happened back at the airport, and focused on how annoying it was to have no phone.
“Fucking terrorists,” I said softly.
“You shouldn’t say that word.”
I looked up. There was a young boy in the doorway, maybe ten years old. He wore a red plastic raincoat, glossy and wet.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay.” He took my apology as permission to step into the room. “I’m not supposed to tell grown-ups what not to say. Even if they use bad words. Are you a grown-up?”
“Only sort of. But compared to you, yeah.”
“Okay.” He nodded once. “I’m Tom.”
“I’m Lizzie.” My head felt heavy again. Terrorists, the afterworld, doctors, and now this little kid. No one wanted to let me sleep.
His raincoat was dripping water on the floor.
“Is it raining?”
“No. But it was.”
“Right,” I said. But it hadn’t been, and it was freezing out, too cold for anything but snow. Tom’s bare legs showed beneath the hem of his raincoat.
“When was it raining?” I asked.
“When the car hit me,” Tom said.
I felt a sliver of the cold that Yamaraj’s kiss had forced out of me, like a cool finger sliding down the middle of my back. The hospital seemed to go still outside my room, as if the sound had been sucked up by something thirsty for noise and clatter and life.
I closed my eyes, but opened them again instantly. Tom was still there, looking at me funny.
“Are you okay, Lizzie?”
“I don’t know. I died tonight, I think.”
“Don’t worry. It only hurts at first.” He frowned at me. “But you look shiny, like the nice lady who comes.”
“The nice lady?”
“The one who’s not dead. She’s my friend.”
“Oh.” My own voice was distant in my ears, as if I’d already fallen asleep and this was someone else’s conversation leaking into my dreams.
“She comes every week to talk to me.” Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out something soggy. “Want some gum?”
“No thanks.” I could hear my heart beating a little faster, thanks to the machines by my bed.
I was shiny, like Yamaraj. And this woman who visited ghosts.
“Listen, Tom. Tonight was really weird. I’m kind of tired.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to go now. But get well soon!”
“Thanks. You too . . . I guess.”
Tom turned and walked back out into the hall, turning to wave at me.
“Bye, Lizzie.”
“Bye, Tom.” I let my eyes close again, counting out ten long breaths until the beep that was tracking my heartbeat steadied a little.
When I looked again, he was gone, and the bustle of the hospital had returned. People in blue and green scrubs went past the doorway, no one looking in on me.
I pulled the black plastic clip from my finger, slipped from the bed, and took a few steps to the door. I sank to my knees to place a palm flat on the spot where Tom had stood.
The hospital floor was cool and gleaming, but completely dry.
“Oh dear. What are we up to in here?” came a voice from the hall.
I looked up. It was one of the nurses who’d brought me to the room. He knelt and took my wrist gently, feeling for my pulse.
“Did you get dizzy?”
“No,” I said. “I was just checking something.”
“Down here on the floor?” His big hands took my shoulders. “What say we get you back to bed?”
I stood up on my own, and he gave me an encouraging smile.
“I just thought it was wet there, and someone would slip.”
He looked at the floor. “Looks okay to me. Why don’t you lie down, sweetie?”
“Of course.” I lay back obediently, but his hand stayed on my elbow.
“I’m going to get Dr. Gavaskar now. Are you going to stay here in bed?”
“I don’t think anyone called my mom,” I said. “She must have heard on the news. She must be freaking out!”
“I think the airline and TSA are contacting relatives. But how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
His eyes widened a little. “I’ll get you a phone. Just sit tight.”
“Thank you.”
He disappeared into the corridor, and I was left alone with the beeping of my heartbeat again. I decided that there was no need to tell him—or anyone—about Tom. My resolve to stay quiet on the subject of ghosts and afterworlds remained firm that night, through conversations with Dr. Gavaskar, a relentlessly nice woman from the airline, and two field agents from the FBI.