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“I-I don’t know. Think so,” Memphis answered, sagging against the wall.
“It’s always ducks first,” Ling said in a tight whisper.
“What?” Memphis whispered back.
“Old MacDonald. It’s ducks, then pigs, then cows.”
“Maybe in Chinatown. But in Harlem, I learned it pigs first.” He put his ear to the door, listening. “I think they’ve moved on.”
“I’m sorry,” Ling said quietly. “I shouldn’t have asked you to stay. I can’t expect you to risk your life for me.”
“You’d do the same for me. I know you. Besides, you’re the smartest person on this team. We need you.”
“Thank you. I think you’re pretty smart, too.”
“Something I always wondered about, though. How come you never once asked me to heal you?” Memphis asked. “Did you ever think about it?”
Had she thought about it? Just every time she saw Memphis. She imagined herself walking up and down the streets of the Lower East Side as she once did, no buckles digging into her skin, no crutches callusing her palms, no pain. There were times when it was all Ling could do not to beg Memphis to change her back to the way she had been.
But she wasn’t the same person she had been. It felt, somehow, as if a healing by Memphis would unmake who she was now. As if she would lose what she had come to know about herself in the past few months, about her strength and resilience. And if there was to be a cure for her paralysis, then science would find it. Not just for her but for others, too. Maybe she’d even be a part of that.
“I do. But I don’t. Do you understand?” Ling said.
Memphis thought about it. “Not really,” he said
.
It dawned on her that this was the first real, in-depth conversation she and Memphis had ever had. Sometimes it seemed as if he lived a world away, uptown in a place she barely knew, far removed from the narrow streets of Chinatown. She liked Memphis. There was so much she wanted to ask him, about their powers. About healing. About his life. She hoped they’d survive this terrible night and she’d get the chance.
Memphis risked a look out. The corridor was clear. No ghosts, no fog. “Find the others?” he asked.
Ling nodded. “And it’s ducks first,” she said definitively.
Sam and Evie had run after Conor, who had led them on a chase down into a basement of dark corners and low ceilings.
“You see him?” Sam asked as they peeked around a noisy boiler.
“Huh-uh. And I don’t like basements. Nothing good happens in basements. That’s where one-toothed murderers always live,” Evie whispered. “In basements.”
“Well, my mother used to put pickled herring in our basement,” Sam said, inching forward.
“See what I mean? If it’s not ghosts and one-toothed murderers, it’s pickled herring.”
“Maybe we should let him take his chances and go back upstairs with the others. Frankly, I’m not so sure I wanna be alone in a basement with Conor Flynn, the priest murderer.”
“Just one more minute, please? I’m worried about him,” Evie said.
“Okay, Baby Vamp. Okay.”
The basement was dank and smelled of the river. Several empty stretchers lined the hallway, and Evie shuddered to think of what could be hiding under those wadded sheets. Just keep walking, she told herself. Off to the right was the plunge bath cut into the floor. Water pushed inside and sluiced up the walls in violent spasms. The lights weren’t working. The storm had seen to that. There was a washroom, and Evie realized rather suddenly that she had to go.
“Stay right here. I need to iron my shoelaces,” Evie said.
“Now?”
“Sam. I need to go!”
“Fine. But could you be quick about it? Creepy down here.”
