CHAPTER ELEVEN

I can’t look away.

“No!” I wail, helpless. Charlie plummets toward the ground, becoming smaller and smaller until he’s little more than a dot disappearing through the canopy of trees.

I sprint through the rows upon rows of bookshelves and back to the elevators. My palm slams against the call button on the wall. Come on. I urge the elevators to race each other to the ninety-fifth floor; my fists bounce off my thighs while I pace. Every few seconds, I stop to drum a staccato rhythm on the lit call button with a shaking index finger.

An elevator makes its way up from the lobby at a crawl, the numbers creeping upward until at last the chime of its arrival sounds. The doors part and I dash through, pivoting to the side to squeeze in before they fully open. I spend the ride down hopping on the balls of my feet and praying the elevator makes no stops, but like my other prayers today, this one is ignored. Six stops slow the trip to a snail’s pace. Residents I can’t bring myself to so much as look at come and go as we make our slow descent to the ground floor.

The doors open and I hit the lobby at a run, sick with fear and adrenaline. I round the reception desk and run flat into Charlie.

He grins from ear to ear as his hands land on my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks. “Where’s the fire?” he asks, laughing.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand.

“Dez, I’m fine.” He takes a step back and turns around, arms out at his sides. “See?” He doesn’t have a scratch on him.

“Why, Charlie? Why would you do that?”

“I was just screwing around. I told you that pain and injuries are all in our heads, but it didn’t seem like you believed me.”

He reaches for me, but I take a step back. “That was a horrible thing to do. You have no idea what I’ve been through today.”

The smile falls from his face. “It was a joke,” he says. “Come on, lighten up.”

“If that’s your idea of a joke … ” I turn on my heel and storm off toward the elevators.

Charlie jogs to catch up to me. “Where are you going?”

“Away from the chaos.” I press the up button on the wall.

This time there’s an elevator waiting for me. The doors open and Charlie moves to follow, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “Elevator rides are bad enough. I don’t need an afterlife daredevil tagging along.”

“Dez—”

The closing doors cut off his words.

Flames flicker and bend as though reflecting the thoughts dancing in my head. The fireplace is a warm and welcome change, its heat a soothing respite from this nightmare of a day. I feel like a dandelion gone to seed and blown into the wind.

Was it really just this morning? I can still feel the cold steering wheel in my hands and the warmth of the heated seat; I can still feel the sleepy fog lifting from my mind. The day felt so promising. The universe gave me no warning, no hint at what it had in store for me.

“What happened out there?” Hannah asks. “Did Herc say something?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She moves from the recliner to the couch. “You’ve barely said a word since you came back.”

“I just wish this day would end.” I slip off the couch and onto the floor, moving closer to the fire.

She glances down at her wrist. “It will. Just another hour and a half to go.”

“How can everyone be so focused on time when it’s meaningless? I mean, eternity trumps all, right?”

“We’re used to the passage of time. As hard as this all is, throwing us into a timeless eternity while we try to let go would be impossible. That’s why we’re on ‘living’ time, down to the millisecond. Besides, time’s a pretty effective motivator. If you know exactly how long you’ve been here, you’re more likely to work hard to get out. The staff wants us to move on just as much as we want to.”

“I doubt that. But say you’re right, and we’re dependent on the passage of time. What about the parts of the world where people are on a different calendar? What do they do?”

“Everyone is on the calendar they’re used to from life. The parks are kind of like the United Nations. They have us all divided up.”

“Interesting.” My fingers stretch toward the flames as I lean precariously close to the fire. My face stings from the searing heat.

“What are you doing?” Alarm lifts Hannah’s voice half an octave.

The heat becomes oppressive, but I hold my hand steady. The flames leap forward, licking my fingertips as though accepting the challenge. I yank my hand back, cursing the blisters appearing on my thumb and index finger.

“What did you expect?” Hannah furrows her brow and stares at me, shaking her head.

There is a soft knock at our door. “I’ll get it,” Hannah says. “It’s probably Franklin. He’s our floor supervisor.”

I slink back to the couch. “No more people,” I groan.

“Hey, Charlie,” Hannah says. “Wow, for me?” she asks, her voice sugary and warm.

“Uh … I … ” Charlie stammers. “Is Dez here?”

“Dez? Yeah, of course.” Her face reddens as she turns around. “I guess you two have met.” She leaves Charlie standing in the doorway with an enormous bouquet of flowers in his hands.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks with a sheepish smile.

“Fine,” I say flatly. I cross the suite from the couch to the door in a few long, angry strides, and join him outside the room.

“What do you want?” I pull the door closed behind me.

He holds the flowers up. “I would have been back sooner, but it took a while to pick them.”

“I guess so.” I do a silent count. There are three dozen flowers in his hands. Tulips, roses, marigolds, daffodils, carnations, and a few others I can’t identify.

“There are more downstairs,” he tells me, a hesitant smile on his face. “I couldn’t carry them all, but there’s an apology for each floor.” He stares down at the flowers. “I really am sorry, Dez.”

“Tulips are my favorite,” I whisper, remembering the bouquet I carried last spring as a bridesmaid in my cousin Julia’s wedding. They’re still hanging, dried, on my bedroom door.

“You want ninety-five tulips?” Charlie asks, eager. “I’ll go pick them.” The hopeful look in his eyes is enough to melt the frosty edges around my anger.

I pluck a fiery fuchsia and orange tulip from the bunch and twirl the stem between my fingers. “No more windows, okay?”

“Scout’s honor.” He hands me the rest of the flowers. “Can we start over?”

“Deal.”

“I’m Charlie.” He holds out his hand. “I occasionally do crazy things, but I’m working on my not-terrifying-the-new-girls skills.”

I laugh, the final remnants of my anger vanishing. “Nice to meet you.” We shake hands, and a surge of electricity passes between us, making me shiver. That sick and nervous feeling I had when I first saw him is back.

“What are we going to do with all of those?” I ask. “I don’t think our rooms come with vases.”

“I know just the place. Follow me.”

He leads me into the library, scanning the shelves as we wind our way through the aisles. “Here we are,” he finally says. “Botany.” He grabs the flowers and shoves them onto a shelf near a book titled Ikebana Through the Ages: A Visual History of Japanese Floral Arrangement.

“Visual aids,” I say. “Nice.”

“I’m nothing if not thoughtful.” He looks me up and down. “You know what you need?”

“To wake up?” One side of my mouth pulls up in a half-smile.

“Uh, you know what else you need? A patented Charlie Weimann butt-kicking in foosball. Guaranteed to make you forget your troubles.”

“Is that so?”

“How can you worry about being dead when you’re being annihilated by little spinning soccer men?”

I stand up straight, my chin in the air, feigning indignation. “You talk a mean game, Charlie Weimann, but you underestimate the competition. You happen to be looking at a foosball master, and the beating I’m about to lay upon you will make you regret such assumptions.”

He bows in a gesture of deference, one arm stretched out. “After you, milady.”

More one-on-one time with Charlie?

Yes, please.