Page 13 of Haunted

“He never wore it again,” Mom says. “Eleven hundred dollars.”

Parker laughs—a startled, cracked sound that hurts to hear—and the table comes back to life around him. I squeeze his wrist. Then look at my plate.

I don’t feel brave. I know what I did was supposed to be brave, but I don’t feel it. What I did was stand on that lawn and argue with a grown woman until she let me have one of her sons. And I don’t know if I took Parker because he was the only one I could get, or because he was the only one I wanted.

When Mrs. Bishop calls—and she’s going to call, she has to call—I’m going to tell her that Parker stays with us. And she’ll tell me no, because he isn’t mine. There’s no version of this, no matter how much I run the scenario in my head, where I’m the one who decides.

I want her alive. I want her alive more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. And the day she is, she takes him home to box cutters and rationed food and a bathroom door he isn’t allowed to close.

When he goes back to eating he’s slower, less mechanical, and when I put my hand on the small of his back he pauses for just a second, studying the plate, before he carries on.

Tomorrow he’s eating breakfast if I have to stand over him.

Chapter four

Parker

There isn’t anywhere in this house I’m supposed to be. The kitchen is Mrs. Broussard’s, the recliner is Mr. Broussard’s, the beanbag in the den is Bree’s, and I’ve been standing in the hallway between them for ten minutes because sitting down anywhere feels like taking something.

I keep thinking I should ask Lance to drive me back to the shelter. At least there, anyone looking for me would know where to find me.

But the truth is that I don’t want to go to the shelter because I’m afraid I’ll be forgotten there, and everybody will go on with their lives but me. At least here, that could never happen.

I’ve ruined family game night too. Apparently it’s been a tradition since the Earth cooled, but nobody felt like playing Clue after everything. They invited me like I was a real member of the family, but Lance and I could barely keep our eyes open, so it was shelved. I wish it hadn’t been. I haven’t played a board game since I was really little—Elliott doesn’t understand rules and gets frustrated—and I would have loved to learn. I tried to explain that, but it made Mrs. Broussard get that sad look in her eye.

Every time I look at the door, I try to picture Elliott coming through it. He’ll be telling me that he’s really sad that he couldn’t take his Super Mario posters. I wonder if he is still in the stage where he thinks that it’s a great big adventure or the one where he discovers that he forgot something or that his shoes pinch, and he wants to go home.

The family congregates in the living room to watch the news. I catch Lance’s parents exchanging a quick, careful glance before they look at me, like they’re checking to see if I’ll hold. Lance pats the space next to him on the sofa. I hover for a second, then sit, leaving a careful gap between us. There’s empty space on the other side that I could have gone to, but he ignores it. I fold my hands in my lap and sit straight so that no part of our bodies touches.

The local news covers what we already know—the stories of hope, the pockets of people who survived, the street that was almost miraculously untouched, and the four shelters trying to cope with the influx of people. Nobody speaks until the program ends.

“So many shelters,” I say. “And that’s not counting people who went to friends and family. Small wonder nobody knows anything.” I look at Lance. “How long do you think they’ll try to find people?”

“I’m sure they’ll be working late into the night,” Lance answers me.

Someone’s cell rings and, instinctively, I grab for mine, even though it’s not my ringtone. Mrs. Broussard puts hers to her ear. “This is Jackie Broussard,” she says after a second. Her face clears. “Oh. Okay. Yes. Tomorrow morning. Of course. No, Social Services haven’t been by yet.” She listens. “I can tell him. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

She hangs up. “Parker, honey, that was someone from the University. She got our number from the shelter. Your Aunt Shelley’s in Denver for work, but she’s been told about you and she’s already on her way. We’re to expect her in the morning.”

“Aunt Shelley. That’s good, right? Does she know anything about my family?” I ask.

“No, but she’s been trying to get in touch since she heard the news and finally got through to the shelter at the right time. So she knows about as much as we do. But she’s coming.”

I don’t know what that means for me. She is a complete stranger. Why didn’t she call me? I gave that woman my name. “I need to plug in my phone. It’s running low.” I stand up as the broadcaster for the national news comes on.

“Day of Fire: scenes of panic and fear as wildfires devastate the town of Fairhaven, Virginia, the death toll uncertain.”

I stop where I am. I look back up at the screen as the anchor recites the day’s headlines before switching back to us. Fairhaven is the lead story. On the national news. I sink back onto the couch and grip Lance’s hand. This anchor is grave and polished, and the opening music and production values make everything that happened here seem far more significant and dramatic.

“The tiny college town of Fairhaven, Virginia, has been ravaged by a fast-moving wildfire that has devastated entire communities as hundreds of people evacuated, many only minutes away from the fires that would destroy their homes.” There is a montage of pictures: homes on fire, charred automobiles, an exhausted firefighter battling out-of-control flames. I scan every image. Every car, every face in every crowd shot. None of them are Mom. None of them are Elliott.

“Our local correspondent, Tricia Hamm, has the story. Tricia, what’s the mood in town?”

Lance puts his arm around me, and I lean against him, staring up at the screen.

“Somber,” the correspondent says. She’s talking about early warning and word of mouth and minutes to evacuate, and I’m catching about one word in three. Poor early warning. Fractured communications. Survivors still separated from their loved ones.

“Awful,” the newscaster says. “And have there been any positive stories out of this?”