Page 67 of Plain Sight

“How do you feel about ravioli?”

“In general, fine.”

Cook explains the varieties of ravioli he can make. Jameson admits butternut squash is his favorite. Brigit says that Cook makes the best butternut squash ravioli. Zeus agrees. Jameson says the best for a ship? and Cook scoffs loudly and says say that again in front of my face and Jameson says I did say it in front of your face and Cook says that includes dry land, and that calm feeling is just everywhere, and something catches my attention—the two little girls giggling in the family room, Hades standing by looking quietly amused, and in the very back of my mind the thought surfaces—maybe he’s going to stay awake forever, and it’s never going to get worse.

Zeus brushes by me, like he’s going out to the dining room—wait, no, he’s going the other direction. I have no idea why he’s moving that fast until I finish turning my head and he’s hugging Jameson.

Only he’s not hugging Jameson. He’s holding him upright, because Jameson’s out like a light.

There’s no panic. I don’t know why I thought there would be panic. Maybe I was panicked. But the moment has arrived. Jameson’s asleep.

Zeus walks him to one of the downstairs guest bedrooms like it’s nothing, puts Jameson in the bed, and straightens up.

“What now?” I ask, like a complete undergrad.

Zeus could be an asshole, but he’s not.

“Now we wait,” he says.

We wait for thirty-six hours.

It's so late it's early when Jameson screams.

17

JAMESON

Small footsteps wake me up.

No. I’m already awake. I’ve been lying awake all night. I was awake when Gabriel left. That was⁠—

When was it?

The footsteps get closer. I keep thinking they’re fading out, but they’re covered by the constant whine of the next-door neighbors’ ancient air conditioning unit. Louder, than softer. Louder, than softer.

I’m late. My chest constricts. I’m not late. I missed it.

Missed what?

The funeral.

Those small, tentative footsteps, a little kid awake in the middle of the night, cross behind me.

I can’t turn my head. “Remy?”

“Jameson.”

Remy’s standing right in front of me, six inches from my knee, her seven-year-old face bone white, like the lightning left a permanent mark. She wears a pink nightgown with a sequined heart on the front, and her hair’s wild, a blonde halo around her head.

“Jameson.” Her chin dimples.

My jaw’s wired shut, but I push through. “Remy, it’s late. You gotta go back to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Mason won’t stop screaming.”