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“Do you miss your mother?” Malik asked suddenly, and Francis started guiltily, as if Malik had read her mind. But of course it was a normal enough question for an older guy to ask a kid.
Francis shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I’m sorry she died. I’m not sorry the rest of them died, but she was my mom, even though she wasn’t very good at it.”
Malik nodded. “I miss my family. I miss my room. I miss my guitar collection. I miss going to classes.” He took a sip from his cup, then another. “I miss privacy most of all.”
“They’re in your head? Those Watcher things?”
“Always. Always, always, always.” He said it with a sigh and a grim smile. “I am never alone. I would give a lot to get them out of my head.”
Francis sensed that Malik wasn’t talking to her, so much as just talking to pass the time. And as much as she was intimidated by him, she had deeper worries.
“What do you think happens to people if they get left in the Over There?” Francis asked.
Malik met her gaze. “I don’t know. But I do know that when I let go of your hand I was scared. Badly scared. As far as I know, you are the only way in and out of that n-dimensional space.”
“So maybe they’d just be stuck there forever?”
“Possibly,” Malik admitted.
“That’s pretty harsh.”
“It’s hard to stop evil without doing evil yourself.” His face registered wry disgust, disgust with himself. “Are you religious?”
She frowned, searching her memory. She’d never been to church, let alone Sunday school. And the only references to the divine she’d ever heard were blasphemous curses. “I don’t think so.”
“Me neither. It’s almost a pity, because people who believe in God, they have someone to ask forgiveness from. If I do something . . . something evil . . . who do I go to to absolve me?”
“Yourself, I guess.”
“Yeah. I wonder when this is all over, if it’s ever all over, I will forgive myself.” Then he seemed to shake off the gloomy mood, and in a harder, more decisive voice, said, “Today, however, Francis, our friends are counting on us. Shade and Armo and Dekka and Cruz may die unless we do our part.”
“Just . . .”
“What?”
“Just don’t let me be like those people the bug man hurt. Don’t let me be like that.”
Malik stood silent, looking at her until she reluctantly turned to look him in the eye. “Francis,” Malik said in a serious tone, “you need to explain what you mean.”
“I mean don’t let me live like that. Promise me if that happens you’ll, you know . . .”
“You’re asking me to kill you?” He said it softly, not as an accusation. “Jesus, Francis.”
“Promise me or I quit,” she said with sudden vehemence. “I’m not a coward, but . . .”
“Of course you’re not a coward,” Malik said. “You’re brave as hell.” He was silent then, but she could practically see the wheels turning in his head. At last he said, “All right, I promise.”
They had another three minutes to wait—their cue was two minutes before everyone else—and passed the time in silence, Francis savoring the fact that Malik thought she was brave. She’d received very few compliments in her life, none in recent years unless you counted leers and vulgar suggestions from the bikers.
At last Malik said, “Thirty seconds.”
Francis could not speak past a lump in her throat but held out her hand. Malik took it.
“Now,” he said.
The world of right angles and straight lines, the world of up, down, left, right, forward, and back disappeared to be replaced by a lunatic vision of concrete and pipes under the street and gas lines spewing vapor like clouds of red gnats.
And then, all at once, they were in a brightly lit public restroom. The floor was dark terrazzo, the walls white tile. They were between two rows of stainless-steel sinks crowned by round mirrors. Francis saw a thin, frightened-looking girl in the mirrors, and as she looked at her reflection she imagined her skin turning red and black, pustules, seething masses of creepy-crawlies . . . imagined the unspeakable pain. The despair. Imagined her own voice screaming, begging for death . . .
