Chapter 22

<<Happy New Year, suckas!>>

What to do for a person with Acute Stress Disorder? Fire a starter pistol and shout: ! Heckleena tweets.

You’re insensitive, Hairy replies.

SNAP OUT OF IT! @JFlyTrap, Heckleena tweets.

@Heckleena It’s a chemical imbalance, Hairy replies.

“No, no, no,” I say, fingers tensing around the phone. I tap the screen as if I can break through to the other side of the gorilla glass and throttle whoever hijacked my Twitter accounts.

@HairySays Stick a broom handle up your butt and come mop my tears, Heckleena replies.

Even I’m not this nasty.

Do I wear berets too often? I mean, I just saw Miranda Kerr with one and we share colors, Tule tweets.

Is that really Ellie? Or just someone who follows Tule’s account who’s taken over?

Everyone knows that if you have a problem just ask @GumpsSays for the answer! Frannie tweets. I wonder who has the reins of Frannie too, because last I heard the real Frannie was a punked-out rock star in Montreal.

@GumpsSays hello. What should @JFlyTrap do? Hairy tweets.

Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it, Gandhi, Gumps tweets.

Not more Gandhi! Enough patronizing from the grave, PLEASE! As if we don’t have enough zombies around here, Heckleena replies.

But Gumps is dead too, Hairy says.

NO REALLY!?! *weeps*, Frannie tweets.

Twitterbot = immortality, Heckleena replies. Who would have thought?

The real question is, where is @JFlyTrap? Tule tweets. And will she ever return my skirt?

It is Ellie! I’d forgotten all about that skirt. In grade eight, we swapped clothes all the time. At this point I’d be lucky to fit my leg into it. And if Ellie is Tule, then Harry is likely Hairy. What are they doing?

@TuleSays Something tells me your skirt might be a little overcooked, Heckleena replies.

I stare as the tweets scroll across my feed. Someone hacked my accounts—or some people. But no matter what pops up, I can’t believe it was either Ellie or Harry, even if they’re manning the accounts now. I sigh and am about to shut my phone off when another tweet appears.

I have some ideas on how we can reach her, Paradise57 tweets.

Paradise57—that’s Jonny. I lean closer to the phone. It’s an account I promised never to use again.

His next tweet is just an image. A graffiti mural under the bridge. Me battling a techno-zombie. It’s awesome.

Who wants to help? #stopthezombies, Paradise57 adds.

Anything remotely close to the apocalypse sounds interesting #stopthezombies, Heckleena tweets.

Oh, yay, maybe we can bring @GumpsSays back as a nice one! #stopthezombies, Frannie replies.

Pretty sure the dead are all icky #stopthezombies, Tule says. But I’d love to pick Steve McQueen’s brain. :)

Not as much as Zombie-McQueen would like to pick yours! Heckleena replies.

And then come tweets from the Twitter handles of Hannah, Ellie, and Karl, and confirms who is behind Shadownet. My friends are doing this. All of them. But that still doesn’t explain who hacked my accounts.

Great idea #stopthezombies, Pumpkineater tweets.

And I groan, Pumpkineater is really Peter and I flop on to the mattress. A book slides off the bed as I fall back. It lands on the floor, title side up: The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I glance back to the tweets. They keep coming and not only from my friends who puppet Shadownet, but other followers of theirs and my accounts.

Before I realize it I have tears in my eyes.

#stopthezombies Come on over to Kickstarter. Paradise57 has included a link to the crowdfunding site in his tweet. He’s starting a funding campaign?

The nurse walks in with the meal and places the tray on my bed table. The table swings on its hinge to face me. The nurse sighs and grabs a spoon, which he scoops into some mashed potatoes before lifting it to my mouth. I let him feed me a couple of bites before realizing how weird it is.

“Um, I can serve myself today, thank you,” I say.

He glances up from the food and then to my phone and smiles. “Well, well, well. Yes, you can, Miss Rose.” And he leaves the tray of food: bread and butter, a chicken breast, the potatoes, and some peas. I dig in.

Ten minutes later I mop the plate with the piece of bread.

“Good to see you up. Really up,” the doctor says as he enters. He’s a big Asian-looking man and he’s carrying a folder. “Do you feel like a chat?”

I nod.

“Let’s start with introductions. I’ve been your doctor for three weeks now. Dr. Hansom—laugh all you want.”

I don’t, but I smile.

“You have what we call Acute Stress Disorder. It usually lasts three to four weeks. It’s sort of like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but it happens very soon after the event.” He waits for me to nod to ensure I’m following. “It also tends to be easier to treat. I know you have a family history of depression, but you’ve also gone through quite a few events recently, I hear. Can you tell me a bit about them?”

And so I do. I talk about Fenwick and his partner. I talk about helping Hannah and my brief role on the police force’s High Tech Crime Unit. I skip the kidnapping and go straight to the fire. It’s probably enough events anyways.

“And did you set that fire?” he asks, sitting down on the bed.

“No,” I state.

“A lot of your stress is centered around keeping Assured Destruction afloat, isn’t it? It would be natural to resent it. To think that without it, life would be better.”

“I didn’t set it on fire. I almost died in that fire.”

The doctor glances down at his notepad.

“And have you ever had thoughts about hurting yourself or others?”

“Only others.” My jaw has hardened to the point that it’s difficult to speak. “Creeps who stalk girls. Men who try to steal businesses. And people who firebomb my family’s livelihood.”

And there it is. I know what I need to do. It may not seem significant to Gandhi, but I need to do it. I have to stop whoever torched Assured Destruction. The image of the chain on the pavement before the burning store flashes in my mind. I have a good idea who did this, I just have no idea how I will prove it.

The doctor pats my leg. “Normally we don’t keep patients with Acute Stress Disorder for so long in hospital, but with your home having burned …”

“Thanks,” I say. “For keeping me. But now seems like a good time to check out.”

As he turns to leave, he glances at the clock. It’s past five. “This week we’ll have some family meetings, maybe arrange for a video conference with your mom.”

I want to say something but he keeps rambling on as if he’s making up for his missed weeks of care—it’s not going to happen.

“I’ll be in and out doing evaluations with you,” he continues. “Let’s get you up and about to see how you’re doing, but if things look good, we’ll be able to talk about where to discharge you in about a week. Okay?”

He smiles and doesn’t wait for an answer. “Oh and Happy New Year!” he chimes as he leaves.

Waiting a week is not okay. I can’t let the trail grow any colder. I am tired, though, so maybe another twenty-four hours. And then I’m outta here, medical advice or no. But the doc’s mention of discharge has me wondering: Where can I crash? I can’t go home. I won’t go to Peter’s. What’s left? I gulp. I’ve crossed that thin line. I’m not just an employee of Annie’s Kitchen, I’m about to become a client.