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"Our daughter liked Apple Jacks," her father said. "She liked them with strawberry milk, too."
"A lot of kids do," Allie told him--although she didn't know anyone else who ate them that way. She dipped the spoon into the pink milk and let the last applejack float in like a lone life preserver.
"More, please."
Her mother poured a second bowl. Allie pushed down the orange cereal circles with the back of her spoon, coating them with milk.
"I guess that was your daughter's room I was in, huh?"
Her mother nodded, but didn't meet her eyes.
"Something happened to her, didn't it?"
"Yes, Danny, something did," her father answered.
"You don't have to talk about it," Allie said, realizing this was going too far.
"No, that's okay--it was a long time ago," he said.
Not that long, Allie wanted to say, but instead she said, "I'll bet she loved you very much."
She should have left it there, but she could see a police cruiser pulling up to the curb outside, and then a second one. If she was going to do this, she had to do it now.
"Sometimes people go away," Allie told them. "They don't mean to, but they can't help it. It's nobody's fault. I'll bet if she could, she'd want to tell you that it's okay--that she's okay. I mean, people die, but that doesn't always mean they're gone."
Then her mother and father looked to each other, then back to Danny Rozelli with moist eyes, and her mother said, "Allie's not dead."
Allie grinned. It was so like her parents to see things that way. "Of course she's not. As long as you remember her, I guess she'll never really be dead."
"No," her father said. "We mean that she's still alive."
Allie slowly lowered her spoon into the bowl, staring at them. "Excuse me?"
"She's just asleep, Danny," her father said. "She's been asleep for a long, long time."
Chapter 28 The Sleep of the Dead
Comatose.
Nonresponsive.
Persistent vegetative state.
All complicated words used by medical specialists to label a patient who remains unconscious. You would think that the labels mean something--that doctors know exactly what's going on in the brain of a comatose patient. But the truth is, nobody really knows anything. A coma can actually mean a whole range of things, but at its heart, all it really means is that someone simply won't wake up.
Allie Johnson had suffered internal injuries and severe head trauma in a head-on collision. She flew through the windshield, into another boy who was on his way through his own windshield. Nick was, of course, killed instantly, but Allie was quite a fighter. Her heart continued to beat. It was beating as they rushed her to an emergency room. It was beating as they hooked her to a dozen different life-support machines. It was beating as they worked on her on an operating table for five hours to repair her massive wounds, and it was still beating after all the operations were done. Thanks to medical science, and a body that simply would not give up, Allie did not die. Although her wounds were severe, her damaged body eventually healed, and her brain still showed a hint of basic brainwave pattern, proving that she was not entirely brain-dead. Brain-dead would have been easy. It would have given everyone a reason to just throw in the towel. But now Allie's parents were both blessed, and cursed, with the smallest fraction of hope.
"I won't try to sugarcoat this for you," the doctor had told her parents several weeks into Allie's coma. "She could wake up tomorrow, she could wake up next month, next year, or she might never wake up at all--and even if she does, there's a good chance she won't be the girl you remember. Her brain might be too damaged for higher cognitive functions--right now we just don't know." Then, in that compassionate yet heartless way that doctors have, he told Allie's distraught parents this: "For your sake, I hope she either wakes up the same girl you knew, or dies very quickly."
But neither of those two things happened. And now in a hospital somewhere, in a room somewhere, in a bed somewhere, Allie Johnson lies asleep unable to wake up ...
... because her soul is in Everlost. In her book, You Don't Know Jack, Allie the Outcast gives this as her final word on skinjacking:
"There is a truth about skinjacking that I can't tell you, because it's not my place. I don't have the right. It's the reason why we can skinjack, why we don't forget things, and why we're different from every other Afterlight in Everlost. It's a truth that all skinjackers must learn for themselves-- and if you are a skinjacker, then you will learn it, because the more you skinjack, the more you are driven toward it, like a salmon fighting a current to the head of a stream. I can only hope that once you do know the truth, you find the courage to face it."
Chapter 29 Teed for Two
Little Danny Rozelli was having a bad day. It began with waking up in a strange house, and now many hours later, things weren't getting any better. He was talking to himself, twisting and turning in bed--everything short of spinning his head around and vomiting pea soup. In the olden days, people would have said the boy was possessed, but modern science knew better. Danny was just sick. Very, very sick.
