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“Okay. So how do we find this miracle guy, this Dr. X?”
“She said we have to look for signs—billboards, tabloids, personals.”
Gonzo stares at me. “Seriously, what are they putting in your IV? Wack on tap? Even if we entertain the idea that a winged being in combat boots gave you a secret mission to find a doctor with a magical cure, how are you gonna go anywhere, dude? In case you haven’t noticed, you’re in a hospital bed at St. Jude’s and sometimes you have trouble just getting to the bathroom. Did 1-800-Punk-Angel give you some pointers there?”
“She gave me this.” I show him the laminated wristband. Gonzo puts his face near and reads.
“An E-ticket?”
“It’s got some cosmic, stabilizing mojo to combat the prions.”
“Cool! Punker Angel gave you more health.”
“Yeah, exactly. But it’s only good for two weeks.”
Gonzo whistles. “Man. Bummer. Well, good luck, dude.”
“I’m supposed to take you with me,” I say very fast.
o;It’s awesome. Once they made this guy shave his butt on national television—and the guy did it! Totally rocked the house.”
How long till the pain medication? I could count the minutes. Go to sleep and not wake up. I could stay here and wait for the inevitable.
Saving the world. That’s impossible. Insane.
Still.
A cure. I could be cured. That’s what she said. And some little atoms come awake inside me, swirling into a question I can’t shake: “Why the hell not?”
I could have a chance.
And a chance is better than nothing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wherein I Try to Convince the Dwarf to Leave Behind the Comforts of Recycled Toilet Paper in Order to Accompany Me on a Mission to Possibly, Maybe Save the World
Once my family thinks I’m asleep and they step out for dinner, I wake Gonzo.
“Hey, dude. What’s up?” He sits up and wipes the drool from the corner of his mouth. The newsprint from his video game manual has smeared over half his face from where he fell asleep on it. This is the guy Dulcie thinks I should take with me on the road? Holy crap.
“Um, look, I know this is going to sound completely crazy, but I had this, I don’t know exactly what you’d call it. A vision, maybe.”
“What kind of vision?” he asks, yawning.
“This angel spoke to me and—”
Gonzo stops mid-eye rub. “Hold up. How did you know she was an angel, amigo? What did she look like?”
“Uh … wings. Breastplate. Pink hair. Fishnets and combat boots.”
“Awesome! Punk-rock angel! You think God’s a metal-head?” Gonzo gives me a thrashing air-guitar solo while banging his head and flicking his tongue in and out of his mouth. It’s like watching a snake die slowly and painfully. “What’s angel girl’s name?”
“Dulcie. So—”
Gonzo frowns. “Doesn’t seem like an angel name to me. My mom’s really big on the saints, and I’ve never heard of a St. Dulcie. You sure you weren’t just dreaming, man?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say, though I’ve never been less sure of anything. “She gave me this mission, Gonzo. The most important mission of our time.”
