As the bus nears our station, China says, “I’m sorry if we get in trouble tomorrow.”
I shrug to say I don’t mind.
“What will you tell your parents?” she asks.
“I’ll tell them I got sick of the drills. I’ll tell them I’m scared to blow up. I’ll tell them that it’s finally getting to me.”
She nods. “This town needs more shrinks,” she says.
“Every town needs more shrinks,” I say.
“Free shrinks,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say.
China says, “That’s how I found Shane online. We are all each other’s free shrinks. It’s a forum for people who have survived things. Maybe you could join.”
I can’t even figure out how I’d introduce myself to a group of strangers. I don’t even know if I need a shrink. Is it normal to know, deep down, that you are two people joined as cells? Is it normal to know, for sure, that there is an organ inside us that no scientist has discovered? Is it normal to know, without a doubt, that you will escape this place in a helicopter that no one else can see? How would I explain that to a roomful of strangers?
“Aren’t you going to ask me about why I go online to talk about my problems?” China asks.
I’m still in the imaginary free-shrink room, telling the strangers I wear a lab coat every day. In my imagination, I don’t tell them the lab coat keeps me safe, because I’m afraid they’ll think I’m crazy.
“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” I say.
She says, “Look at me.” She is a stomach. She is digesting a bag of Swedish Fish she ate on the bus. Everything is red. “Aren’t you ever going to ask me what’s wrong?” she asks.
“I was waiting until you felt ready,” I answer. I don’t tell her I can’t talk about things like that. I can’t tell her anything since the day I lied to her about the scar on my leg. I’d told her it was from a boating accident. She’d said, “That’s bullshit and you know it.”