Page 36 of Won't Back Down
No. I couldn’t do this anymore. I wouldn’t.
Exploding up from my seat, I struck out at the hand holding the cup, sending the pills flying like so much confetti. Darting past him, I made for the door out of the common room. But it wouldn’t budge when I shoved at the bar.
“C’mon. C’mon!” I threw my full weight against it, to no avail.
The orderly was closing in. I bolted to the left, past Mrs. Tate and her endless knitting projects. She lifted rheumy eyes and rose, dragging her partly finished blanket as she began to shuffle after me. Pete and Maisey abandoned their game of checkers as I flew by. Their faces were too pale, too lax. That grayish cast wasn’t from months without the sun. They looked… dead. But that didn’t stop them from joining Mrs. Tate and the orderly in herding me toward one corner of the room. Suddenly, all the other patients were on their feet, part of the mindless, zombie-like pack.
No. They wouldn’t take me! They wouldn’t pull me in again.
There were no other doors, so I backed toward the window, frantically searching the furniture for something I could hurl to break the glass.
A splash of crimson drew my attention to another man shambling in my direction. His mouth hung slack, and his eyes were vacant. Blood trailed down his face and soaked the front of his shirt, dripping onto the floor as he kept coming, coming, coming. One hand reached out to touch me?—
“No!”
“Willa!”
Someone I couldn’t see wrapped me in restraints, and I fought back, lashing out with everything I had, trying to break free.
“Wren, wake up! It’s me. It’s Sawyer. Wake up!”
The sound of his voice dragged me out of the dream. Like a swimmer breaking the surface, I gasped in huge lungfuls of air, still sobbing with terror. Roy was bouncing on the bed, barking. And Sawyer… Sawyer was right there, arms wrapped around me.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I sagged into him, burying my face against the warmth of his chest and holding on for dear life, because he was real, and I wasn’t back inside. There was no room for mortification or regret. I didn’t care that he was getting a front-row seat to my brokenness, because he was my safe place.
He rocked me for a long time, until the tears stopped, and my breathing finally leveled out. “That must have been one hell of a nightmare.”
“You could say that.” On a sigh, I pulled back far enough to scoop a hand through my hair. “I should have expected it after today.”
“Your time off-island?”
“With an added zombie chaser. Literally. That was new.” I remembered the bloody guy who’d nearly touched me and shuddered.
His wince was sympathetic. “I’m guessing the chances of you going back to sleep are probably close to nil.”
I glanced at the clock. 2:24. “Not likely. I can read for a while. Or stream something on my laptop. That’s what I usually do.”
“I’ll do you one better. Come on. Let’s go downstairs.” He slid off the bed and held out a hand with a look that was reminiscent of Aladdin offering Jasmine a magic carpet ride. I wanted to follow him anywhere when he looked at me like that.
“You really don’t have to stay up with me. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. My stomach did. I want a snack. I’ll fix us something.”
Shocked to realize I could actually eat, I put my hand in his.
The house was dark and quiet but for our soft footfalls and the click of Roy’s claws on the hardwood as we went down to the kitchen. It struck me that there was nothing creepy about the house. I didn’t feel weird being here, despite the incredible age of the place. It just felt… comfortable. I didn’t know how much of that was the house and how much was the fact that Sawyer was here with me.
He opened the fridge. “Sit.”
Because I didn’t want to be as far from him as the breakfast nook, I boosted myself onto the counter opposite the stove and watched him. He pulled out cheese and butter from the fridge, then snagged a loaf of bread from Panadería de la Isla.
“Grilled cheese?” I asked.
“Midnight snack of champions.” He set a skillet on the stove and turned on the burner.
I watched him move, admiring the efficiency as he sliced the bread and put together the sandwiches. Only when he laid them into the skillet did I register he wore only a pair of low-slung, cut-off gray sweatpants. The handful of lights he’d switched on highlighted the dip and curve of the muscle he’d packed on during his naval service. He’d tended a little toward skinny growing up, but now all that height had bulked out into a package I couldn’t help but admire.