She tucks her hair behind her ear and looks at our intertwined fingers.
“Did you get transferred to the plant?” My mouth is dry and I wonder if she got fired after all, but it doesn’t make sense.
“I’m the IT manager. He gave me Henry Haney’s old job.”
I stare at her. “So you’re my boss?”
“Guess so.” Her eyes wander up from our hands, along my scar until they finally meet my eyes.
“That’s great, Emma! Congratulations!” I smile and reach for her hand again, but she pulls away. Another shock.
“You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
She cocks her head to the side. “Ethan, we’re both equally qualified, and yet he still chose me.”
“Well, if you put it that way . . . ” I flash my teeth again. “No really, it’s fine. With the way things are nowadays, I’m just happy we both still have jobs—I do still have a job, right?”
“The good thing about being your boss is that I have a say in your job security. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still employed.” Her face scrunches as a thought hits her. “Unless there’s some rule I’m forgetting. Or Mr. Marble wants you gone . . . then it’s kind of out of my hands. Sorry.”
I chuckle. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, you have a couple weeks’ recovery anyway.”
A knock on the door breaks our conversation. It’s Dr. Fletcher. “Excuse me, may I have a word with Mr. Pierce in private?”
“Oh, sure!” Emma snatches up her purse from the side of her chair, then leans down and kisses my cheek. “Um . . . I’ll see you later.”
When she leaves, Dr. Fletcher pulls the chart from the end of my bed and scans it over. “She’s cute. Girlfriend?”
“Yeah. When do you think I’ll be able to go home?”
“Well, the physical therapist was satisfied with how you walked today. But he still wants you to do PT for a bit outside of here. If all goes well, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to go home tomorrow or the day after.” Her eyes flit over the clipboard and she adds, “So long as you take it easy.”
“Of course. What about work?” I can’t help but think about how the lack of income is hurting Cale. Our rent isn’t cheap, living near Chester Park and all.
“I would advise you to wait a couple weeks.” She drops the chart back in the holder at the foot of my bed and slips her hands in the pockets of her white lab coat. “You were electrocuted, Mr. Pierce. You were exposed to a very high amount of voltage. Most people wouldn’t have survived that. To be honest, I’m actually a little surprised that you did.”
I let out a huff of air. “Thanks for telling it straight.”
She nods to my arm. “I hope that scar reminds you of how lucky you are. Think about how tired you feel now. With a full work week, that amount would be tripled. You may even end up back in the hospital. Take it easy for a few weeks. Relax. Stay at home. Catch up on TV or a book or something.”
I give her a thumbs-up. “Got it.”
She pulls out a piece of paper from her pocket and hands it to me. I unfold it and see a phone number scribbled on it. Is she hitting on me?
“On a more personal note,” she continues, “This is actually my last week at the hospital. I would like you to consider coming for weekly check-ups to the clinic I’m opening in Hopman.”
Nope, definitely not hitting on me. My cheeks grow hot.
“I want to continue to monitor your recovery,” she says. “Like I said, you took a high amount of voltage, and I want to be sure your heart is still able to hold up two, three, four weeks from now. We’ll reduce your visits on a conditional basis.”
Refolding the paper, I ask, “You think there’s something wrong with my heart?”
“Not necessarily.” She sighs and shifts her weight onto her other foot. “We needed to resuscitate you three times. That takes a toll on your body. I just want to make sure everything holds up. And, if I can be frank again, I’m curious.”
“So I’d have to go down to Hopman?” My mind flashes to the numerous news reports Cale does from down there. Murders, drug busts, even a couple kidnappings.
She looks to the floor for a moment. “I know it’s not the best neighborhood, but I’d like to do my part for those who need it. Opening a clinic will provide much-needed support for that area of the city. But if you don’t feel comfortable coming down there, I understand. I can make arrangements with another doctor for your follow-up care. I just wanted to give you my number in case you were interested. I’m still putting together my team and haven’t quite set up my office yet, so I have no way to make appointments.”
I consider the idea of going down to the worst part of the city on a regular basis. My parents would flip out. So would Cale and Emma, although I doubt Emma would directly tell me not to. She knows me by now. You tell me not to do something, and it’s the exact thing I’m going to do.
Still, it makes me nervous. But it’s only once a week, and it’ll be during the day. I’ll be fine. Just stick to the main streets.
“You can think it over a bit and weigh your options,” she adds.
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll come. Sign me up.”
The next morning I wake up in my own apartment. Cale has already left for work—down at WOPA, the television news station—and everything is quiet.
He called a cab last night when he brought me home so we could avoid the subway. By the time we got up to our apartment, I was wiped. I collapsed on the recliner and didn’t move until . . . well, I haven’t moved yet.
I pull out my phone from my back pocket—my butt is numb from sleeping on it—and notice my battery is at 1 percent. I ignore the dying device and check out what’s on Facebook. Emma added her new job to her profile, but her most recent posts are updates about me. I read through some of the comments, wishing me well, offering Emma condolences. Twenty minutes later, I see that my phone is now up to 78 percent. Weird.
I toss it on the coffee table and get up slowly. I’m tired, but I smell from having gone a week without proper bathing.
When I get out of the shower, I’m ready to sit down again. It’s just a shower stall, and we don’t have a bench or even a railing in there. I was afraid I was going to fall a couple times.
I collapse in the recliner again and reach for the remote. When I point it to turn the TV on, the screen sparks and then cuts out. I notice a flicker of white lightning rolling across my fingertips. I drop the remote and stare at my hands until it subsides.
My heart beating faster now, I snatch my phone from the coffee table and scroll through for Dr. Fletcher’s number. Instantly it surges to 100 percent. I find her entry and hit “Send.”
I get her away message and bite my thumbnail as I wait for the beep.
“Dr. Fletcher! It’s Ethan Pierce. I, uh . . . I think I need to bump up my appointment. Something weird—just call me back when you get this!”
I click off the phone, but my shaky hands can’t hold on, and it tumbles to the floor. Tremors rack my body. A warm feeling spreads throughout my limbs, and I suddenly can’t keep my hands still. I feel like I want to scream or run, anything to get a sense of release.
I stand and walk to the window. I smell the smoke from the TV shorting out and open the window for fresh air. I tap my hands against the windowsill, desperate to keep them moving.
My phone begins to buzz on the hardwood floor and I jump, sending a bright streak of white lighting surging across the street to the neighboring building.
I stare wide-eyed at my hand, awestruck. The tremors have stopped and the warmth diffuses. A black mark smudges the red-brick wall of the building, and I catch a wave of smoke rising from the mark on the opposite building before the wind whisks it away.
I pick up my phone and answer it just before it goes to voicemail.
“Mr. Pierce?” It’s Dr. Fletcher. “What’s the matter? You sounded anxious on your message.”
I gulp and think about the best way to explain what just happened without sounding crazy. “Um . . . I think something weird is happening to me. I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Weird how?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“I just shot lightning across the street!”
She’s quiet for a moment. I shake my head, feeling like an idiot for saying something so stupid. She must think I’m hallucinating. She’s going to put me in the psychiatric center, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life eating applesauce with the guy who thinks he’s Elvis Presley reincarnated.
Her voice snaps me out of my moment of paranoia.
“Can someone bring you to the clinic? I took the day off to put together the office, but I’ll make time for you.”
Cale, Emma, or even Myra. Those are my only three choices. All three would give me grief for going down to Hopman. All three have jobs. The only one I might be able to bug is Emma. She’s also the least likely to make me feel even more stupid for thinking I just shot lightning out my window.
“I might be able to ask someone,” I finally say.
“Okay good.” She gives me the address and I scribble it down on the front of an old pizza box—tucked between the garbage can and the counter—Cale’s idea of making dinner and cleaning up.
“I’ll wait until you show up. Do not bring yourself.”
I nod and then add a moment later, “Yes.”
“Hopefully I’ll see you shortly, Mr. Pierce. Call me if something comes up.”
“You did what, exactly?” Emma asks as we roll up to a stoplight along Wilkinson Avenue—a main street that runs south through the city to the skeevy Hopman neighborhood. We just passed out of the construction zone for the solar roadway installation, which had traffic backed up in all directions.
“I told you it was weird.”
Emma didn’t hesitate when I told her I needed a ride to see Dr. Fletcher. Didn’t ask any questions, either, until we were in the car and she was sure I was okay. Well, as okay as I can be for someone who’s hallucinating. Even now, as I explain what happened, she’s trying to rationalize it.
“So you think the accident gave you supernatural powers?” She fixes her glasses and continues on to the next stoplight. “I didn’t realize you were a comic book nerd.”
“That’s not what I said—”
“It’s basically what you said,” she interjects. “I mean, I think it’s cool. You know, as long as this isn’t you tripping on some new medication or anything.”
“It’s not—” I stop before I can finish. I don’t even know if what I saw was real or not. Maybe there was a slip-up in the drugs I was given at the hospital. Maybe these are withdrawal symptoms.
We pull up to the address, but Emma leaves the car running.
“Uh . . . are you sure this is the place?” she asks.
The buildings around us are mostly abandoned. They’re littered with graffiti and trash. There’s a group of people standing outside of a corner store, one of the few open businesses on the block. They all stop and stare at us as we idle. One woman, with part of her hair tightly braided against her head, gives a scowl when I catch her eye.
The building that’s supposedly Dr. Fletcher’s could use a fresh coat of paint itself, but otherwise it’s a gem compared to its neighbors.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t see any other car here. She said she’d be here.”
“Maybe she was murdered,” Emma mutters as she looks around.
“Not funny, Em.”
“What about that driveway? Where does that go?” Before I can answer, she’s following the strip of potholed pavement that leads behind the building. One lone car sits in the small parking lot. It doesn’t look like it’s spent any time at a scrapyard, which fills me with hope that it’s Dr. Fletcher’s.
We approach the door and knock on it nervously, wondering what we’re getting ourselves into. When it swings open, both of us jump.
“You made it!” Dr. Fletcher meets us at the door. She’s not wearing her white lab coat. Instead, she’s in a pair of jeans and an old concert T-shirt.
“Hey, nice tee!” Emma says. I shoot her a look and she says, “Sorry.”
Dr. Fletcher tugs at her T-shirt. “Yeah, I’m sorry about all this. It’s a work in progress.” She spreads her arms and motions around the room. Only a few of the fluorescent lights are on, and the front desk is piled high with papers. Stacks of chairs line the hallways, and various machines provide obstacles as we maneuver through the clinic. “What’s going on? You sounded worried on the phone.”
“He’s got magic now!” Emma blurts. I shoot her another look. “Sorry. I’ll give you guys a minute.” She flashes a smile and wanders off toward a large white machine in the next room and pretends to look interested.
Dr. Fletcher smiles.
“Look, I know what she said sounds crazy, but that’s really what happened,” I say. She opens her mouth to reply, but I put up my hand to stop her. “I know. It’s probably some side effect or something causing an illusion. Are there any new meds I can take so I don’t hallucinate anymore?”
“Mr. Pierce—”
“Call me Ethan. You’ve seen me comatose. Crazy can’t be much worse.”
She leans against the front desk and looks at me. “I don’t think you’re crazy. It’s quite possible you’re generating some static electricity. You may have shocked yourself and seen a spark. Couple that with your first day back from the hospital, and you may have thought you saw the spark shoot across the street.”
“There are scorch marks on the next building!” I pull out my phone and show her a picture. “Zoom in, you can see it.”
She pinches the screen and lifts it closer to her face. “Are you sure that’s not just dirt?”
“Dr. Fletcher—”
“Alex.” She offers a smile.
“Alex,” I repeat, “this isn’t static electricity. I don’t think I’m . . . supernatural or whatever, but I do think there’s more happening here.”
She brings her hands together, entwining her fingers. “Well, I’d certainly be interested in looking into the possibility that something else is going on here. As long as you’d be willing to be a subject.”
“Like a lab rat?”
She shrugs. “It’d be research, yes. But believe me when I say what we do with the results will be completely up to you.”
I’ve been standing too long and I feel exhausted. Alex notices this and pulls a chair from a stack in the corner and sets it down. She wraps an arm around me and grabs my arm to help me into the chair. It’s unnecessary but nice.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“What’s going on?” Emma comes to my side.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You should probably get him back home,” Alex tells her.
She nods. “I’ll pull up the car.”
When she’s gone, I turn to Alex. “Call me when you’re ready to start.”