Ash dialed Trent. She practically skipped across the clearing while waiting for him to pick up.
When Trent answered, he sounded hoarse. “Ash? Is it time?”
“Hell yeah! The craziest shit just went down. I can’t wait to tell you.”
“We’ll be right up,” he said. “Are we the last ones? How many trades left?”
“Five,” she said. “Father McKagan’s gonna trade his kidneys when he’s done praying. Donnie Adler, once he shows up, gets the skin. You and Jake’ll get the leg and eyes. And then—Dad, who’s our rib guy again?”
Dad was pacing the thicket, phone pressed to his ear. “Trying to reach him. Won’t pick up.”
“Shit.” She cleared her throat. “Trent, just hurry.”
After two more attempts, Dad shook his head. “Not looking good, Ashlee. This fella seemed interested yesterday when I asked about his compound rib fracture. Now he won’t answer.”
“Got anybody else lined up?”
“Not a soul.”
Sharp fear prodded her spine. After everything they’d done to liberate the creek, now people were dropping out. Worse yet, sundown wouldn’t hesitate.
“You sure you can’t think of anyone, Dad?”
“He’s the only fella I know.” He checked his watch. “We still got time. Maybe he’ll call back.”
“We can’t gamble on a maybe right now.”
“What else can we do?”
She stared past him, into the dark green thicket. She pictured the people in town. Tried to think if anyone had so much as rubbed their side since her arrival. Her trance was interrupted by Candace squawking beyond the pines. Mick yelled back, and his voice delivered an epiphany.
“Got it!” she said, looking to her father. “Mick’s a football player—they’re always cracking each other’s ribs, right?”
“Ask him,” Dad said.
She pushed through the thicket and found Candace sitting on a tree stump. Mick stood there scolding her, his head still sopping wet. He turned to Ash.
“What do you need?”
“Your ribs,” she said. “Are any of them cracked?”
Mick shook his head.
“Shit. Got any teammates who might want to trade?”
“Yeah, but they’re at least an hour’s drive away.”
We don’t have an hour. Her eyes drifted over Mick. His forearms bulged within their sleeves. The hand clutching Candace’s elbow resembled a sledgehammer encased in flesh. “Mick, what do you say we call it even?”
He squinted. “Even?”
“Right. I shot you, so…” Lifting her left arm, she took a deep breath. Then she patted her side. “Let’s even the score.”
Mick nodded. They left the other Traders to babysit Candace and reentered the clearing.
When Dad learned of her plan, he shook his finger at her.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Ashlee, we’ll get someone.”
“We’re outta time,” she said, unzipping her jacket.
“Stop and think,” he said. “What if Mick breaks your ribs bad enough to puncture a lung?”
That scenario made her quiver. Still, time was running short. Their rib guy should’ve been ready an hour ago. Somebody had to trade, but she couldn’t picture anyone volunteering.
“I’m doing it,” she said.
Dad cleared his throat. “How about me instead?”
“Hell no. You’re still woozy from getting stabbed and you know it. Face it, Dad. It’s gotta be me.”
For a moment he looked away. He pressed two fingers to the bandage covering his neck and winced. He sighed, then looked at her with moist eyes. “Be very, very careful.” He turned to go.
Soon as he left, she removed her jacket and hoodie, leaving only her tank top to absorb impact. She stood near the bend, shivering. Filling her lungs, she lifted her elbow. The sweat along her armpit tingled in the wind. She exhaled.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Do it, Mick.”
“You sure?” Mick approached. “How hard?”
“Pretend you’re Mayweather.”
He made a fist. Threw a jab.
She flinched. Pain warmed her side.
“How’s that?” he asked.
She gritted her teeth. “Go again.”
His next jab struck harder. She staggered back.
“Broken?”
She shook her head.
The next punch cracked like thunder. Her whole body went numb. Both legs folded. She landed hard on her back, the impact drilling the pain deeper.
With clenched teeth, she twisted toward the bend. Though only two feet away, it seemed like miles. Mick squatted beside her and slid his arms under her knees and back. When he lifted, her side roared.
“Fuckfuckfuck!”
He set her down an inch from the water on her good side. She panted. “Thanks.”
“Sure you’re okay?”
She grimaced. “Ever crack a rib?”
“Yeah, in high school. Played through it.”
“You fucker.” She smiled weakly. “Shut your eyes.”
She checked the water. Saw her ideal self and asked to trade.
She felt a tug. In that moment her ribcage became steel and Snare a powerful magnet. Ash tumbled into the creek. Icy agony swallowed her from head to waist. She screamed, and grimy water filled her mouth.
The most surreal sensation followed. Like nothing she’d experienced, even on her wildest acid trips.
A million little somethings latched onto her ribcage in a million different places. The pain in her side vanished. Then so did her ribcage. Nothing protected her insides, and panic bloomed within her brainstem. She feared her torso would collapse upon her lungs and smother her.
Her panic ceased as a narcotic high swung in. The sensation overwhelmed her. It made Vicodin look like a multivitamin. She stopped thinking of herself as human. She was a ribcage now, curved bones and nothing more.
Euphoria rocketed outward from her spine, arching toward her sternum. It happened again and again. She never wanted it to stop.
But like any other high, it did.
The frigid water zapped her back to reality. Ash stumbled and splashed and then goose-stepped out of the creek. As she caught her breath, water drained from her hair, skin, and clothes. Within seconds she was dry, though still freezing her tits off. She slipped into her hoodie and jacket and hugged herself for warmth, marveling at her awareness of her new ribs. They felt fresh and cool, like her teeth after an overdue cleaning from the dentist.
Out of curiosity, she lifted her arm and patted her side. The ribs felt sturdy. Possibly invincible. She slapped her side till it hurt. Nope, not invincible.
Beside her, Mick winced, clutching his own side as if she’d been slapping him. It was almost comical.
“What?” She raised an eyebrow. “Is it that hard to watch?”
Mick frowned and shivered, his head still wet from his recent trade.
“Aren’t you freezing?” she asked. “Here, I’ll have Snare dry you off.”
“Nah, forget it,” he said, backing toward the thicket. “I’ll towel off later.”
Ash rolled her eyes at the macho-guy act. “Whatever. Enjoy your pneumonia.”