how they feel? They’re stuck like that. Never changing, never healing, never escaping.”
“Em,” I reach across the center console and touch her hand. She jerks away. “Come on. Life isn’t something to escape.”
“No.” Her voice falls to tones of acid and regret. “They’re not even living. They just exist in a state of constant decay.”
“Can we not have an argument,” I shift the car a few feet forward, “in the middle of a traffic jam?”
“It’s going to happen either way.” Such a dark, resolute tone.
Fine. She wants to have it out? Let’s go. I’ll have to defend my actions eventually.
“Is that what you think is happening to you?” I ask, “Do you think you’re decaying?”
“I might not be a zombie deer,” she snaps, and spritzes herself with the new body spray. “But I didn’t have any more choice than the animals.”
“That’s what this is about? I brought you back but you didn’t ask me to? I already know I’m going to hell for it, Em, you don’t need to pack my bags for the trip.”
Em twists in her seat, peers up the line of cars between us and an exit. Then she turns to me and opens her arms, gesturing to herself. “And this isn’t hell? Can’t sleep, can’t get full, can’t think straight. How do those animals feel? They can’t even tell you! If this is life on the other side, I don’t think I want it.”
Swifter than her anger, an odd stillness engulfs Emma. Her hands droop, her shoulders relax. Before it reaches her eyes, she looks at me and says, “Alex, something’s wrong.”
“Yeah.” Something that hasn’t happened before. “We’re fighting.”
I see it the moment it happens – a quick, hard shift in Emma’s demeanor and expression. Confusion and sadness snuff out, and only her anger remains.
“That’s not it!” With a snarled expletive, Em yanks the car door open and plunges into the snow storm raging outside. She’s just… gone. The Acura shudders when I put it into park. Snow obscures my face and eyes when I jump out of the car.
“Emma!” I yell. A jittery feeling razors my nerves. “Emma, come back!”
The only response I get is the driver in the car behind me laying on the horn. I should flip him off and run after her. Something bad is going to happen, I know it like I know I love her. When I turn to give him the middle finger, I see the red and blue lights of a police car at the end of our traffic jam. If I run off, there’s no telling what kind of trouble I will be in.
I can’t see her. Searching for her blond hair in a snowstorm is an impossible task. Worry sickens me as I yank the door back open and drop behind the steering wheel. The driver behind adds a rude blat of the horn after the vehicle in front of me inches forward and I don’t follow immediately. Then I do flip him off.
I may fear police involvement. I am not going to take bullying from a crowd-follower.
Scanning the roadside, I try to catch a glimpse of Emma, praying the cold drives her back to the car, or that she comes to her senses and returns so we can figure this out. Yes, she has a reason to be upset. She should be angry, and I should be lashed with her anger. But jumping out of the car in a snowstorm? That behavior is far from normal. Em’s always the one nagging me about driving safely, dong the smart thing behind the wheel, wearing a jacket.
Did Paul calibrate the charge wrong? Did I overdose her with the formula? We could’ve fried her nervous system, anything…
I punch the Bluetooth connection button and voice command, “Call Paul.”
He answers almost before it rings the first time. “How is she, Alex?”
“Something is off. She got really angry and then stormed off – in the middle of a blizzard. Could we have overdosed her, or had the charge set too high and fried her limbic system?”
“Not likely,” he says. The confidence in his voice does little to make me feel better. Guilt and fear nearly drown me. “I hacked into her
“Em,” I reach across the center console and touch her hand. She jerks away. “Come on. Life isn’t something to escape.”
“No.” Her voice falls to tones of acid and regret. “They’re not even living. They just exist in a state of constant decay.”
“Can we not have an argument,” I shift the car a few feet forward, “in the middle of a traffic jam?”
“It’s going to happen either way.” Such a dark, resolute tone.
Fine. She wants to have it out? Let’s go. I’ll have to defend my actions eventually.
“Is that what you think is happening to you?” I ask, “Do you think you’re decaying?”
“I might not be a zombie deer,” she snaps, and spritzes herself with the new body spray. “But I didn’t have any more choice than the animals.”
“That’s what this is about? I brought you back but you didn’t ask me to? I already know I’m going to hell for it, Em, you don’t need to pack my bags for the trip.”
Em twists in her seat, peers up the line of cars between us and an exit. Then she turns to me and opens her arms, gesturing to herself. “And this isn’t hell? Can’t sleep, can’t get full, can’t think straight. How do those animals feel? They can’t even tell you! If this is life on the other side, I don’t think I want it.”
Swifter than her anger, an odd stillness engulfs Emma. Her hands droop, her shoulders relax. Before it reaches her eyes, she looks at me and says, “Alex, something’s wrong.”
“Yeah.” Something that hasn’t happened before. “We’re fighting.”
I see it the moment it happens – a quick, hard shift in Emma’s demeanor and expression. Confusion and sadness snuff out, and only her anger remains.
“That’s not it!” With a snarled expletive, Em yanks the car door open and plunges into the snow storm raging outside. She’s just… gone. The Acura shudders when I put it into park. Snow obscures my face and eyes when I jump out of the car.
“Emma!” I yell. A jittery feeling razors my nerves. “Emma, come back!”
The only response I get is the driver in the car behind me laying on the horn. I should flip him off and run after her. Something bad is going to happen, I know it like I know I love her. When I turn to give him the middle finger, I see the red and blue lights of a police car at the end of our traffic jam. If I run off, there’s no telling what kind of trouble I will be in.
I can’t see her. Searching for her blond hair in a snowstorm is an impossible task. Worry sickens me as I yank the door back open and drop behind the steering wheel. The driver behind adds a rude blat of the horn after the vehicle in front of me inches forward and I don’t follow immediately. Then I do flip him off.
I may fear police involvement. I am not going to take bullying from a crowd-follower.
Scanning the roadside, I try to catch a glimpse of Emma, praying the cold drives her back to the car, or that she comes to her senses and returns so we can figure this out. Yes, she has a reason to be upset. She should be angry, and I should be lashed with her anger. But jumping out of the car in a snowstorm? That behavior is far from normal. Em’s always the one nagging me about driving safely, dong the smart thing behind the wheel, wearing a jacket.
Did Paul calibrate the charge wrong? Did I overdose her with the formula? We could’ve fried her nervous system, anything…
I punch the Bluetooth connection button and voice command, “Call Paul.”
He answers almost before it rings the first time. “How is she, Alex?”
“Something is off. She got really angry and then stormed off – in the middle of a blizzard. Could we have overdosed her, or had the charge set too high and fried her limbic system?”
“Not likely,” he says. The confidence in his voice does little to make me feel better. Guilt and fear nearly drown me. “I hacked into her
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