BECKETT
Thirty minutes from the café, I started to get cold.
Really, really cold.
It felt as if the temperature of the wind blowing at my body on my motorcycle had dropped twenty degrees.
Twenty-five minutes from the café, my skin started to itch. Annoying little bug bites on my arms and legs. What was happening?
Fifteen minutes from the café, the itching subsided, and my joints started to ache. A deep, throbbing sensation.
Two minutes from the café, and my muscles ached so much, I was afraid Jack would have to carry me off the bicycle. My joints screamed in pain.
We pulled up to the café, and Jack jerked his bike into a no-parking zone.
He didn’t look back at me before running through the coffee shop door.
I clung to the motorcycle handles, knowing if I let go, I’d fall off my bike, curl into a fetal position on the sidewalk, and start screaming at the top of my lungs.
On the seat in front of me, Ollie whimpered.
Jack emerged seconds later, jaw tight. “She’s not here. Hotel.”
When I didn’t climb off the bike to follow him on foot, he noticed I was off. “What is it?”
“I don’t know!” I contained a scream. I gripped the handles so hard my knuckles turned white. I couldn’t move. “Just go!”
I didn’t need to tell him twice. He ran off down the road, no doubt breaking an Olympic track record. At the end of the block, he sprinted up the hotel steps, and his body disappeared from view.
I wished I could be with him. I wished I could be there to help him find her. I should be there.
And then … it stopped.
The pain subsided, and I was left gasping for breath.