Burn by Monica Hesse Page A

don’t know why Warren would try to hang himself with the laces of some shoes.”

20
    Lona walked dumbly out into the morning light. The rest of the lot was still empty. She couldn’t have been inside for more than ten minutes; on a normal day, official visiting hours wouldn’t even have started yet.
    â€œI guess I’m an ass, aren’t I?”
    She froze, the keys in her hand, then looked up to the source of the familiar voice, still throaty and deep and full of morning. Fenn was leaning against a lamp post on the other side of her car, hands wedged in his pockets. She slowly walked around to the passenger’s side. Now she could see his bicycle, tipped on the ground.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” she choked out.
    He kicked at the bicycle. “Gamb or Ilyf must have forgotten to put the keys to the other car back,” he said. “They were still asleep when I left. Which is why I had to ride this bicycle in the middle of December. Which is the smallest reason that I feel like an ass.”
    â€œYou’re not an ass,” she said automatically. She was the ass. She was the liar.
    â€œReally? Because that’s what it looks like. When I think you might be going off to do something with your parents, and I don’t think you should have to do everything alone, so I chase after you on a bicycle because I want to be so
helpful
and
supportive
, and then we end up here. In the mental hospital where the Architect lives. So either it’s some amazing coincidence that you had to stop in this parking lot to – what –
ask for directions
? Or I’m an asshole. For believing you.” Her stomach clenched at the sight of his burning eyes. “If there’s another explanation, it would be great to hear it.”
    She opened and closed her mouth. The times she’d rehearsed this confession, it never looked like this. In her mind, she’d always carefully chosen the circumstances – she’d told him the truth in his bed, in the warm kitchen, on the porch swing. She’d never imagined having to talk about this in a cold, empty parking lot.
    â€œBut you can’t tell me, right? You still can’t tell me anything?”
    Lona remained silent.
    â€œI’m going home, Lona.” His shoulders slumped and he started back for his bike. His fingers were red and chapped from his ride.
    â€œFenn, don’t.”
    â€œI don’t
want
to be here, Lona.” He spun back around. “I don’t want to act like a crazy person, following you around, or wondering where you are, or sitting in front of a mental hospital – a mental hospital, Lona?” His shoulders jerked up and down. She saw his breath curl out of his mouth, a puff of heat against the cold. He lifted his palms to the air and glanced around at their surroundings.
I don’t want to feel like I’m crazy. But here I am standing in the parking lot of a mental hospital.
    â€œYou’re visiting him, aren’t you?” he asked. He accused. “Aren’t you?”
    â€œYes,” she admitted. “Yes, okay?” She grabbed his sleeve to make sure he didn’t leave again. “But I can explain. I can explain why.”
    â€œExplain, then.” His voice was blade-sharp and vicious. “Go ahead, Lona. Explain.”
    But now her mouth was filled with sand and half-formed rationales.
The Architect is in a coma. I know he’s in a coma because I tried to visit him. I often visit him because I’m still trying to figure out my past. I’m trying to figure out my past because I think it might be connected to a strange man’s memories.
It was like she was singing a version of that children’s song:
I know an old lady who swallowed a fly.
The song could go on and on, listing what the old lady swallowed to catch whatever had gone down her intestinal track before it: spiders. Birds. Donkeys.
    But in the end it kept coming back to the