It’s one of those screams that pierces into your soul, one where you can hear the pitch rising and falling as the emotion rushes through someone’s body.
It’s worse than anything I’ve ever heard in a horror movie.
I sprint so fast I feel as though I’m flying. Into a different house this time, two stories, up a rickety narrow staircase that would’ve terrified me in any other circumstance. Past giant holes of decay in the wood that could land you right back onto the first floor with a broken foot. Out the back window and onto a slat of flat wooden rooftop.
Beck stands over a bird’s nest.
For a moment, I search her for blood, for an injury that would have her screaming like that. The closer I get though, the clearer I can see she’s holding something, but she’s uninjured.
“Beck!” I scream, trying to be heard over her screams. “What’s wrong?”
She falls back onto the ground, squirming away. Dropping something where she was.
It’s neon orange.
I bend down and every gear in my brain suddenly slows to the speed of molasses.
But once my eyes focus, the scream builds in my own throat.
It’s a fingernail painted in orange polish.
There’s a bird nest on this roof and it’s lined with Paisley Horne’s fingernails.
Twenty-Six
I have to make sure Beck’s okay. I have to photograph these nails. I have to get away, get away,get away.
I squirm back, only to back into nothing. I flail, realizing I’ve nearly run myself off the roof. Heart lodged in my throat, I force myself toward the nest and away from the grass below. Beck is hunched up against the wall next to the open hole of the window, knees tucked into her chest and her body heaving. Her gaze is locked on the nest, eyes wide in a horror she can’t look away from.
“Beck!” I try again.
But no answer. She can hear me, but she can’thearme. My own heartbeat picks up, but I tell myself to stay calm. One of us has to be calm. We just found Paisley’s nails separated from her body, and I have to stay calm.
I’ve had panic attacks before, as far back as my first time going to camp at age ten. I’d insisted I wanted to go and be like Owen but had choked right as my mom was dropping me off. I remember Owen leaving the car, chipper, and I just broke down in the back seat. Mymom, who’s usually so strict about schedules and efficiency, turned off the engine and got in the back with me. She told me about distractions, breathing techniques. She told me about how sorry she was, about how I got this awful thing from her. But how she was okay, and I’d be okay too. I don’t know if being autistic automatically means having anxiety or if they just often go together, but I felt so safe in that moment knowing we shared the anxiety and she got through it. She told me that there’s always a way to get through these bad thoughts. And once they were through, she told me I had a choice—I could face whatever had caused the panic attack or I could listen to my body and try again later.
I have to get Beck to that choice.
I bridge the gap between us. I scoot in across from her on my knees and grab her hands. She’s burning hot from the adrenaline, her every muscle quivering like mine do after a really hard workout. But I feel out-of-body, completely in control and calm. I have to be for her.
“Come onto your knees with me,” I say. “Give yourself a little more room to let your lungs expand.” Beck doesn’t move except for a squeeze in her hands. “Tuck your legs to your side and try to sit up.”
When she moves her legs, I help pull her up to her knees. Her breathing remains shallow, but her torso is free. I can see every muscle pressing in and out in rapid succession.
“Okay,” I say. “Good. Do you want me to let go of your hands?”
Beck shakes her head.
“Okay,” I say. “My water is near the entrance. Do you want me to grab it for you?”
She shakes her head again.
“Then let’s start with getting a bit of the energy out. It’s all adrenaline with a panic attack,” I continue. “Can you tap your thumb againstyour index finger, middle finger, ring finger, pinky, and the reverse?” I show her with my own hand. “Do it as fast or as slowly as you need.”
Beck mirrors my motion, her thumb moving at lightning speed. As fast as her breathing. Her lungs sound crackly, like mucus is building up from her body’s attempts to sob away the shock and pain. She could full-on pass out if she doesn’t slow her breathing down.
“Good,” I say. “Now try to slow it down. Count to one before doing the next movement.”
Her chest hitches and her movements start to slow. Shaky at first, but then a steady, slow beat.
