C’mon, dammit.
“Hands where I can see them!” a voice yelled. “Don’t move!”
She stomped the gas and went nowhere.
“Don’t move!”
Somewhere below, her phone rang.
“Pick up, pick up.” Trent knelt beside Jake at the bend. His jeans were soaked, and the chills were eating through him. “Pick up…”
He got voicemail.
Shit.
He shut his eyes. Squeezed Jake’s shoulder.
“Try again, champ.”
“I want to trade my eyes,” Jake said. He paused. “It didn’t work.”
“Keep trying!”
The clock on his phone read 4:35. One minute left.
Still fucking stuck. Ash shifted into drive and hoped for a miracle. She tapped the gas, and the car bumped the guardrail.
The trooper approached, gun drawn. “Last warning! Throw your keys out the window! Now!”
Ash shifted into reverse and hammered the gas. Her tires whirred in place, then snapped free.
Shots boomed. The windshield cracked.
The Subaru swung sideways, striking the cop and throwing him across the lane.
Ash righted the wheel and flew in reverse.
Toward the zone’s edge.
She and Lauren both screamed.
Trent rolled his pant leg. He couldn’t wait any longer. Sunset would hit in thirty seconds, and Dad’s life was at stake. Though he’d intended to give Jake every possible second, the situation had spiraled beyond his control. With so little time remaining, Trent had to complete Snare.
Had to disappoint his son.
“Jake,” he said. “I hate saying this, but you gotta move.”
“I want to trade my eyes!”
The conviction in Jake’s voice broke Trent’s heart. It wasn’t fair. He deserved those eyes. But Dad deserved to live. Much as it pained Trent, he had no choice.
He took his son’s elbow.
“Jake, I’m sorry. I gotta help Grampa.”
“No, wait!” he yelled. “Dad, I feel it!”
“You do?”
A splash sounded. A big one. Jake dropped fully under the surface. Trent mashed his eyelids shut as another splash ensued. A series of trickles were followed by his son’s gasping coughs.
“Jake!” Trent leaned over the water, where his son stood half-submerged. He patted a towel against his son’s face. “Can you see?”
Jake blinked a few times. His unfocused eyes stared ahead.
Trent checked the time.
4:36.
We missed the deadline.
It was over. And it was unforgivable. Trent felt stupid. His own eyes began to prickle and burn. If he’d only acted sooner. He should’ve—
“Dad, you’re crying.”
Trent touched his cheek. Felt a teardrop. For a moment, he realized that, yes, he was crying. Then it dawned on him that he hadn’t made any sobbing noises—nothing that could’ve clued in a blind eight-year-old.
Jake could see his tears.
Jake could see.
Trent’s sobs arrived, full, ecstatic bursts. He wanted to tell Jake, “Yes! Fuck, yes, I’m crying!” but his throat was so swollen with emotion he could barely breathe. He leaned forward and hugged his half-submerged son. Jake hugged him back, hard. They laughed.
Father and son again.
“Dad,” Jake said abruptly, “what about Grampa?”
“Oh, shit. Hang on, Jake. Shut your eyes!”
Trent rolled his pant leg. On his phone the time read 4:37. A minute after sunset. Glaring at his reflection, he called, “I don’t care that I’m late. We’re trading.”
He thrust his leg into the water.
63
Ash lay slumped against the wheel, her ribcage boiling. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, she could hardly breathe, let alone move. The mounting heat dried her lungs and emptied her pores. She needed to lower the window. Her right hand, limp atop the dash, came to life as she willed it toward the door panel. With a shaky finger, she caught the window switch and lowered it.
Cold air blew in. It brought subfreezing mercy. Her lungs drank their fill, but the burning persisted.
Now she needed Snare to release her ribs and bail her out.
According to the dashboard clock, sunset had arrived. The western sky, however, held a glint of light trapped within its snowy dome. Any second now the deadline would pass.
Heart rapping, she hoisted her left arm onto the dash.
Her wrist remained empty.
She checked the western sky again. The pale glint faded into graying darkness. Going, going, gone. Like a home run Jake might someday smack out of a major league ballpark. Hopefully he got the eyes in time. Judging by the moans coming from the trunk, Lauren had certainly lost hers.
“C’mon, Snare,” Ash muttered. “C’mon, you bitch. Give me my hand already.”
A strange whoosh cut through the outside air. Not blizzard gusts—something else. Like the sound of a plane flying low. A puff of vibrant blue fog appeared. It hazed across the highway, spreading rapidly and blanketing the trooper she’d whacked with her front fender.
That fog, the color—it wasn’t natural.
And it was rushing toward her.
Ash shut the driver’s window, but not in time. Fog leaked into the Subaru, swirling before her eyes like smoke. Where the hell did this come from? Did Snare send this? She held her breath, afraid what the shit might do to her lungs. Despite her roaring ribs, she leaned back, away from the shifting cloud. Her left arm slid off the dash, and when it did, her wrist touched the fog.
For a moment her flesh seared.
She bit back a scream.
Then, at the base of her wrist, came a pinching sensation. At first mild, it expanded, painfully, like knives tunneling through her forearm. Her wrist shook, ready to pop beyond her control. She grabbed for it.
Something pierced the flesh.
A white, bloody nub.
Then another. And another.
Five nubs.
Five bones.
Five actual, physical fingers.
They each stretched half an inch and stopped short. Desperate, Ash shook her arm through the fog. Hoping to speed up the process, she lowered the window and welcomed in fresh haze. Her sprouting bones formed knuckles, then fingertips. Muscle filled the gaps. Tendons took control. Skin gift-wrapped the entire package.
Last to arrive were the fingernails. The fog dabbed them into place like the final touches on an artist’s masterpiece.
And there it was.
Her new hand.
It trembled before her, fresh and cool and real.
Along with the hand came the same euphoric high that had accompanied her rib trade. This time, however, the intensity rocked her like a thousand orgasms. Impossible sensations spilled from her brain and poured through her body. She laughed and cried hysterically. The world around her spun sweetly. When she bent her fingers, she dared to bend reality.
Her hand was back.
And so was she.
64
Trent woke to a cold, nasty shock. Moments ago, he’d been having the perfect dream. All discomfort had flushed from his leg muscles, replaced with a delicious, fuzzy high. It reminded him of the morphine they’d given him at the hospital years back. Except morphine didn’t feel this good. Nothing did.