Chapter 27

OPEN A CRACK

I want to go home with Katie, but it’s too late to call Mrs. Morris, and if I’m not there in the morning, she’ll probably call 911 and mount a posse to look for me.

So Brainzilla’s mom drops me off at home. I manage to thank her for the ride in a somewhat normal voice and walk up the front steps.

The moment I hear Mrs. Sloane drive away, this clammy feeling comes over me. It drips from my head, down my neck, all over my body. It’s a clinging ick.

It captures me; I can’t go inside.

I’m not someone who gets feelings. I usually just walk right into stuff. But this time, it’s like there’s a force field around the house.

I hear the television blaring in the living room. It’s a familiar, calming sound. Then I realize something. It’s 3:17 AM. Mrs. Morris is usually asleep by eleven.

Why is the TV on?

Fear hooks into me, painful enough to pull me forward.

She fell down again, I tell myself. She just fell down again, shefelldownagain, SHEFELLDOWNAGAIN, SHEJUSTFELLDOWNAGAIN! My brain is screaming, wailing like an alarm as I fall to my knees beside Mrs. Morris.

She doesn’t wake up when I say her name. I touch her wrist—it’s cold… and I can’t find a pulse.

“Katie!” I scream, and crawl on my knees to the front door, but my best friend and her mother have already driven away. Still, I scream again. “Katie!” echoes down the deserted street.

This isn’t happening, I think as I crawl back toward Mrs. Morris. I’m dreaming. But I know I’m not. My black tights catch on a flooring nail and rip down the shin. The nail scrapes my skin, drawing blood, but I barely feel it.

Morris the Dog is licking Mrs. Morris’s face, and when I start to cry, he comes and licks my tears instead. I didn’t know tears could pour from me so hard and fast. They say that the human body can be as much as 75 percent water, and I feel like it all comes spewing from my eyes and mouth and nose at once. My body just convulses with the weight of that water as I run my fingers over Mrs. Morris’s face and through her hair. I even spill a little drool on her cheek and have to wipe it away with my coat sleeve.

I crawl to the phone and dial 911, and the operator can hardly understand a word I’m saying. It doesn’t matter, though; 911 magic means she knows where I’m calling from, and I’m so hysterical that she says she’ll send an ambulance right away. “You have to breathe, miss,” she says over and over, but I can’t breathe. I feel like someone is sitting on me.

Finally, I manage a raggedy inhale. Then another.

The 911 operator keeps talking softly into my ear, telling me that help is coming and to try to stay calm, but I’m not really listening to her. I sit down to think. It takes me a few minutes to realize that I’m sitting in Mrs. Morris’s wheelchair.