CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Courage, dear heart.

—C. S. Lewis

Seventeen Years Ago

Patient Number 0022

Jett followed his guide as she flew down the dirt road that led from the farm, gliding and soaring but never dipping out of sight. And when Jett felt scared or confused, his guide sensed it and immediately came to perch on his shoulder, those feathery wings brushing against his cheek, comforting. Back, forth, back, forth.

He followed the dove into the small town where he’d gone to school. Jett walked through the playground, misty images of children running and swinging and climbing the jungle gym, echoes of their laughter a tinny ringing in his ears. He saw strings of light connecting each child to the other, twining and then untangling as they crossed paths, illuminated numbers rising in the air that were slightly off, with odd slants here and double lines there, that he didn’t know the meaning of. But somehow he also understood that they weren’t really numbers but some language he didn’t know that his brain had converted to mostly recognizable digits.

One of the shadows was his childhood self, sitting alone on the bench, trying to be invisible. Jett sat down beside him, and he took his hand. He hurt, and he smelled bad, and the other kids stayed away from him because he was weird and he stank. He pushed others sometimes and yelled when they came up behind him, and the kids thought it was for no reason at all. But there was a reason—not that Jett could ever tell. It was a secret, the one his grandfather had buried him under, and he didn’t want it, but there was no way to get out from beneath it now—and the longer he kept it, the heavier it became.

It fed off him, and it grew and grew and grew. It crushed him and strangled him, and it was so heavy it trapped the words in his throat. Sometimes Jett pictured that secret like a giant monster wrapped around him, its tentacles invading his body the same way his grandfather did. Except the monster was invisible, and it slithered over his bones and squeezed his organs and penetrated his brain, and he couldn’t ever rid himself of the monster ... because in some way, he’d become it. It was bad, and he was bad, and he couldn’t differentiate between one and the other. The monster made his body do things he hadn’t asked it to do. He yelped and fought when he was startled by the smallest thing. He felt numb, and so he scratched at his skin so he could see if he was still alive. And even then, he didn’t know, so he might be dead. Death might be never-ending, forever pain, and that was the most terrifying thing of all. Shh, his guide said, brushing feathers across his cheek, quieting his mind. Back, forth, back, forth. Thud, thud, thud.

Wiggle your toes.

Feel the dirt beneath your feet.

Jett did, and the ground anchored him. He was in his body, and he was standing on the ground, and he had fingers that could move and a heart that pounded to the same rhythm as the distant beat reverberating in the air. Thud, thud, thud.

Are we done here?

Those numbers that weren’t exactly numbers mixed and mingled in the air, changing into other numbers and then dripping away like glittery rain. He had this vague flash of understanding that those numbers explained everything. But he couldn’t read it, so it didn’t matter. The misty images of the children who hadn’t understood his pain faded, becoming air that blew away. He clasped the hand of the boy who was him, and the boy turned, laying his head on Jett’s chest and falling inside. Done.

He followed his guide to the high school and the bowling alley where he’d worked. He saw himself here, there, and everywhere. He watched his happy moments and his sad. He’d hurt people, and they hadn’t known why. He watched himself drink his first beer, remembered the way the pain grew fuzzy and the blessed oblivion that had come. He watched himself hurl terrible insults at a girlfriend who had teasingly grabbed his ass while they were making out because he didn’t want anyone to touch him there, not ever, but especially not in a moment of weakness, when his guard was down. He liked sex for the same reason he liked beer, for the oblivion it brought. But he had too many triggers, and she’d crossed one. And she’d cried, and he’d apologized, but he’d never spoken to her again after that. He couldn’t; the shame was too great. And he set his hand on that boy’s shoulder and told him it was okay, and the boy that was him folded inside, and Jett continued on.

To the old mill where he got high every day, to that bus station where he used the last of his money he hadn’t spent on drugs to buy a ticket that would take him anywhere but there. Anywhere. Anywhere but there. To San Francisco. The city by the bay with the golden bridge that had turned out not to be golden at all.

He started to step onto that bus, to walk to the young man that was him, huddled in the back, trying to make himself small. But a flash of red caught his eye, and he turned, his heart jolting as he saw the little boy step from behind a column. Shh, his guide said, her feathers brushing against his cheek. Back, forth, back, forth.

Thud, thud, thud.

His heart slowed; he felt the brush of feathers and the earth beneath his feet. He blinked, but the boy remained, gaze hung on him. “Help,” the boy croaked. “Help me.”