The sweat that’s been coating my skin since we got here starts to drip down my back. The bars are skinny, kinda rusty, shoddy drill job into the wall. Maybe if I just?—
I clamp each hand around a bar and pull.
Screech.The cage thing groans like it’s in pain, and my arms get so tense I’m probably pulling a muscle, but it collapses in, the bolts wrenching out of the wall. I chuck it to the ground, tug on the window. Again. Locked. I can kinda see in now, to what looks like a little girl’s room—blue bedspread, clothes on the floor, drawings on the wall like she’s Kit—just clogged with smoke.
And barking. I hear it now. Little and yippy and scared.
One more tug, the window doesn’t move, and I’m about to just punch the goddamn thing through when I realize I still have my helmet on.
I push back from the wall, give myself a good running start.
“Fox!” someone yells. Wendy, or—no, I think it’s Tink.
Too late. I headbutt the goddamn thing.
Glass thunders down on my helmet, and I stuff an arm through to undo the latch and shove it open, because no way am I fitting through just a hole, much less one made of broken glass. I fall headfirst, smoke swirling, into thousand-degree room.
The air’s too thick to breathe, too thick to see. Especially in my helmet. But I try.
Floor. Desk. Bed. Pillow—dog. Skinny curled-up thing, long snout and little triangle ears, trembling like a freaking leaf.
No time. I grab it—her—by the neck and tuck her under my arm like a football, then jump onto the bed, grab the top of the window frame, and swing out, feet-first, landing so hard a shock of pain shoots up my ankles and knees.
The air is hazy and thick. But I see them. And run.
“Get on!” Pan grabs the kid by the shoulders and plops her onto the bike, sliding into place in front of her and swinging a U-turn so fast she has no choice but to hold on. “Fox!”
“Behind you.” I stuff the dog down the front of my jacket, tug the zipper, and reach for Tink, but he’s?—
He’s already got me. Holding tight.
“What are you waiting for?” he yells. “Go!”
Shit. Right.
I go.
Next thing I know,I’m on the 303 again, now with a skinny-ass dog zipped into my jacket.
I can’t hear anything. The road’s like white noise. Air, engine, my own loud breathing and pulse. The dog shaking against me.
And Tink.
Holding on very, very tight.
Holdingmevery tight.
I don’t know why I do it, why the impulse comes over me, but it’s like…
It’s like I can sense how he’s feeling. And damn, I don’t…
I don’t want him to feel that way.
And his hands are right there on my waist. Gripping hard.
So without even really thinking, I let go of one handle and just…squeeze it. His right hand. For reassurance, I guess. Not really safety.
Tink doesn’t react. Or maybe he does and I can’t see it. Too busy weaving through traffic, whipping between cars, scanning up ahead for danger, hazards, our next turn.
