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“You going to call your parents?” Brandy asks.

“I’ll probably hold off,” I tell her. “No point in getting hopes up.”

“True,” she says. “Well, hey, listen. I . . . good luck, okay?”

“Yeah, you too,” I say, but I don’t know if she hears me because I’ve already pulled the phone away, already started dialing a number, already have my heart in my throat when he answers.

“Isaac,” I say. “I need you here. Now.”

thirty-seven

My pager goes off too early.

My bag is packed, sitting on my bed, a note for whoever finds it first at the top, neatly centered so that it can’t be missed. There’s a light tap on my door and Karen peeks in.

“Sasha? You’re . . . good, you’re up.”

She’s trying hard to be happy for me, and I’m trying to appear sane. For the rest of the patients in this moment I’m sure there’s a true smile, but the one I’m getting is professional. Now more than ever Karen looks perfect for the cardiac center flier, calm, distant, possibly drugged.

“My pager went off,” I tell her, sitting on the edge of the bed with the bag behind me so she can’t see that I’m already packed. “How much time do I have?”

She glances at her watch. “Twenty minutes, then I need you in a chair. We’ll call your parents, and anyone on your notification list. I—”

“Karen!” I hear a voice yelling from the front desk. “Got another one! Get the little Ries boy ready.”

“Jesus,” she says under her breath, glancing back at me. “Twenty minutes,” she says.

I doubt the ambulance will leave without me. This isn’t exactly a city bus route, but I nod like a good girl. “I’ll be ready.”

She nods and turns to leave, pausing with her hand on the doorframe. “And, Sasha . . . congratulations.”

It’s a dead word in her mouth, one she’s supposed to say. She’s trying to make it sound right, like her lips are in a smile even though I know they’re not. She’s smart enough to keep her back to me when she says it, and I give her credit for trying.

“Thank you,” I say, my fingers digging into my palms while I wait for her to get out of my room already.

As soon as the door closes behind her I grab what I need, opening the door a crack to peek outside. Angela looks at me, and I almost slam it closed again. I thought with all the activity she’d be called off, my guard dog assigned other duties.

“What do you need?” she calls through the closed door as I rifle through my sock drawer for Layla’s Oxy.

I’m more composed on the next try, my eyes meeting hers.

“What do you need?” she asks again. “Chair?”

“No, I’m not ready yet,” I tell her, and she looks at her watch.

“Then you need to get ready,” she says. “Ten minutes and you’re in the chair, out the door.” She doesn’t add good riddance, but I hear it in her voice.

“Karen said I had twenty.”

“Karen’s being pessimistic,” Angela shoots back.

My whole body starts to sweat, the handle of the knife tucked into the back of my pants sliding down my spine. “Listen, Angela . . .”

She cocks her head to one side and raises an eyebrow, like she’s intensely curious to see what I’m going to say next. And honestly, I am too. I’ve got the Oxy in one hand, but her eyebrow is up there pretty high, so I don’t know if that’s going to be enough. The last time I snuck out I still had her trust, plus the pills. Now I’ve only got one of those.

“Listen to what?” she prompts me.

I don’t know, but my brain is racing, trying to come up with what I should do. It reminds me of school, and all the nice people wearing their WWJD bracelets. But it’s not Jesus I’m worried about. What would a normal girl do? What would someone who hadn’t puked down someone else’s throat do? What would a girl who didn’t have a knife in her pants do? What would Sasha Stone do, if she didn’t have Shanna curled inside of her?