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Win the Lottery

“I love them!” Heather lied. “These will go great with my black leather jacket.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Come on, Heather. They're pathetic. But Mariah promised she would teach me how to do a cross-stitch later this week.”

So Phoebe really
was
making progress.
She could see through Heather's bullshit.
Heather had to laugh. Phoebe might still look like she had one foot in the grave, but she was getting better. Heather wouldn't have thought that someone that thin had the energy to crack a joke. Much less knit some crappy gloves. Or do anything else, for that matter.

“You know, it's funny,” Phoebe continued, sitting up in bed. “A year ago I would have said that only freaks and neurotics talked to shrinks. But now I can't believe I went for so long keeping my feelings bottled up. Then again, I guess I
am
neurotic. So it makes sense.”

Heather smiled. “You're not neurotic. You're an A-type personality. There's a difference.”

Phoebe raised an eyebrow. “Okay. I've given you like five chances to diss me, and you haven't bitten. I know you're not holding back because of the anorexia. You insulted me plenty of times when I was in the hospital.”

“I'm in a good mood,” Heather said with a smirk. “Is that okay with you?”

“But why?” Phoebe insisted. “I mean, I know things are going well with Ed . . . but judging from the way Mom and Dad are acting, I didn't get the impression that things were so hunky-dory at home.” She paused. “What's
with
them, anyway?”

Heather swallowed. She was wondering how long it would take before Mom and Dad came up. Phoebe was allowed a visit from one family member twice a week plus one meal out. Naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Gannis had gotten the first two turns. And naturally, when they had arrived home from the visit, they talked more about the cost of the treatment than about Phoebe's progress. Of course, that was all going to change. . . .

“That good, huh?” Phoebe joked in the silence.

“Things will finally start going right for our family,” Heather informed her sister. “Trust me.”

“Oh, yeah? How's that?”

Phoebe was no idiot.
Even though the rest of them had tried to shield her from their stress over the rising hospital bills, she knew she was costing a fortune.

“Let's just say that you shouldn't worry about how long you need to spend recuperating here. It's not going to be a problem.”

“Did we win the lottery?” she asked.

Heather smiled and looked her straight in the eye. “In a way . . . yes.”

 

TOM

I've
spent the past twenty-four hours trying to warn my daughter that she is in grave danger. That premise seems fairly simple on its face. If a man's daughter runs into the road, he runs after her. If his little girl seems like she's about to stick her finger in an electrical outlet, Dad rushes forward and pulls her away. Then he tells her in vivid, gory detail what will happen should she ever follow through on her curiosity.

But I haven't been able to come out of the shadows. I haven't been able to
be
a real father for more than five years now. She has seen me only once, when I saved her life. But I saw the doubt in her eyes that night. Her mind has been poisoned against me.

She doesn't know about the drawer full of letters I have written to her but have never been able to send. She doesn't know how lonely I am each and every day, longing for my daughter.

Nonetheless, I have tried to warn her. I have trailed her as closely as I can. But there are others in my way. Agents are trailing
me.
Every time I get close enough to Gaia to be able to call out—or even just look in her eyes—I feel them closing in. And then I have to flee and vanish into the bowels of the city until they are off my trail.

Because if they catch me, that will be the end of my effort.

I am effectively AWOL. I hope that soon Gaia will be safe, and I can resume my duties. But that may no longer be possible. Not unless I can find a way to trap Loki. Until he is locked up, no one will be safe.

So far, my approach to warning Gaia has been a failure.

And I cannot fail.

Ed glanced around the room, up at all the swirling faces in surgical masks hovering over him. Yes, he was definitely in panic mode now.

 

THE SHEETS WERE COLD AND
smooth against Ed's upper body. He wondered if he would be able to feel their texture against his legs when he woke up.

Human Lab Rat

“Ed, you can still back out,” Dr.

Feldman informed him. “It's not too late.”

Are you out of your freaking mind?
The guy was unbelievable. “Trust me, I don't want to,” Ed assured him. “I want to do this.”

The doctor glanced at Ed's parents. “You all understand the risks?”

“Yes,” Ed answered for them. Was the guy trying to talk him out of this or what? “You've told us everything that could go wrong. The operation might not work. The operation has a ten percent chance of causing even more damage to my spinal cord. Every surgery carries the possibility that the patient will never regain consciousness.”

The statistics had been drilled into Ed's head a thousand times. His parents had even given their consent,
signing a form that for all intents and purposes made him a human lab rat.
So what if he lost the use of his arms? So what if he couldn't pee by himself anymore when he woke up? Ed didn't care. Maybe he would if he thought about it too hard—but at this moment he was resolved. He
was already disabled. If the worst happened, he would deal with it.

But if the best happened . . . well, every big payday involved some risk.

Dr. Feldman nodded one more time at his parents.

His mom squeezed his hand, then leaned over to kiss him on the forehead. “We love you, sweetie.”

“We'll be right here when you wake up, buddy,” his dad added. “Be strong.”

“Hey, chill out, people,” Ed murmured, trying to lighten the moment. He glanced up at them from the gurney. “What's a little neurological damage among family?”

But his mom and dad did
not
look amused. They could at least try to
act
like they weren't as nervous as he was. Stone-faced parents didn't exactly inspire confidence.

“Let's go, Dr. Feldman,” he urged. “This is going to turn into a Hallmark moment any second—and none of us want that.”

“Whatever you say, Ed.” The doctor opened the door to his hospital room, and half a dozen nurses, doctors, and orderlies streamed in.

Moments later Ed was being wheeled down the hall, heading at what felt like sixty miles an hour toward the OR. His heart pounded.
Why did he feel like a prisoner on death row? This
was about
freedom
. Not imprisonment . . . okay. Slow down. Now
he
was starting to think like a Hallmark card.

“Ed, this is Dr. Ramirez,” Dr. Feldman announced, gesturing toward a guy who looked all of about eighteen. “He'll be assisting me.”

“How ya doin', Ed?” Dr. Ramirez asked.

Ed forced a polite grin. But the fact of the matter was that he was verging on panic. What, did they have high school students doing operations now? Maybe this wasn't such a great idea. Maybe he
liked
being in a wheelchair. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Please, God, I know I haven't spoken up for a really, really long time, but I need you to listen. I'm about to have a
major
operation. You've got to watch my back. Please. Don't let anything go wrong. Please
—

What was the old saying about prayer? That it was the last refuge of the damned? Something like that . . .

“Ed, we've put the anesthesia into the IV bag already attached to your arm,” Dr. Feldman explained. “You're going to start feeling drowsy in a few seconds.”

Ed glanced around the room, up at all the swirling faces in surgical masks hovering over him.
Yes, he was definitely in panic mode now.
He'd heard horror stories, terrible things about people who
didn't go all the way under. What if he could
feel
everything they were doing to him?

“I'm not getting tired,” Ed protested, squirming. “It's not working—”

“Just start counting backward from a hundred for us, Ed,” Dr. Feldman interrupted, holding Ed's arm. His eyes, hovering over Ed's face, looked serene and confident.

Ed tried to relax. “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight . . .”

Actually, the old doc had a point. All at once Ed's eyelids weighed a thousand pounds each. He felt like he had pulled an all-nighter and then wheeled the New York marathon.

“. . . ninety-seven . . .”

I'm going to be better, Heather,
he thought. Once he could walk, everything would be different.
No more doubts or insecurities.
He would be Shred again. The daredevil who knew no wave too big or any skate ramp too steep.

“. . . ninety-six . . .” What was the next number? He couldn't remember the next number. “. . . ninety-three . . .”

Gaia's face materialized. She was smiling. She was telling him that everything was going to be okay—the surgery would be a success.

I love you,
Ed thought.
No, wait! I love
—

Luckily at that moment he drifted into total darkness.

 

Pregnant Pause

“MY CHICKEN MARSALA IS DELICIOUS,”
Heather's mom proclaimed. “I think it's the best I've ever had.”

“And the veal is wonderful,” her dad added. “You should try to find out what spices the chef used.” “Good idea, honey.” Heather's mom turned to Phoebe, obviously trying to look casual. “How is your salad, Feebs?”

Phoebe smiled politely. “It's delicious. Thank you.”

Heather considered pointing out that her sister had taken approximately three bites of the Caesar salad with grilled chicken she had ordered. But why?
They were all having a miserable enough time already.
It was as if her family had been abducted and replaced with Mom, Dad, Heather, and Phoebe simulations. Their dinner conversation gave whole new meaning to the term
pregnant pause.

Her parents were like frightened children, terrified of saying anything that might make Phoebe uncomfortable. Heather doubted that this particular scenario was what the therapists had in mind when they made all of their patients go out for dinner with their families. Then again, what did they expect? For the
Gannis family to be standing around a piano, singing show tunes and eating fried chicken dripping with fat? The Waltons they were not. They weren't even the Simpsons.

“Did anything interesting happen at school today, Heather?” Dad asked.

Heather racked her brain. “Uh . . . not really.” This wasn't the prime time to bring up the fact that her so-called friends were treating her like a leper or that she had received a C-minus on her physics lab report.

“Is anyone going to want dessert?” Mrs. Gannis asked the table. “I hear the flan here is excellent.”

At the mention of dessert Phoebe's face tensed, and Mr. Gannis's Adam's apple began to bob up and down. Heather knew what her father was thinking about. The bill. He had probably already calculated the cost of their entire meal, including tax and tip.

“I'm stuffed,” Heather announced. “I'll have enough shrimp scampi left to eat it for dinner tomorrow night.” That ought to make her dad happy. One less box of mac 'n' cheese consumed in the Gannis household.

“I'm full, too, Mom,” Phoebe said. She made a show of putting one last bite of salad in her mouth. “This chicken is
really
filling.”

Mom looked like she was about to cry. Dad looked like he was about to keel over from a heart attack at
any second. Phoebe wasn't the only person at the table in need of a psychiatrist.
Then again,
paying
for a shrink would probably have sent her dad over the edge.
He was barely hanging on as it was.

Heather was tempted to announce to the entire family that Ed had offered to step in and help out with his millions. But parents were tricky. She was going to have to approach them in just the right way—and she hadn't figured out what that was yet. She wasn't even sure she was really going to go through with taking Ed up on his offer.

Part of her knew that it was wrong to depend on him that way, no matter how rich he was. But another part considered . . . maybe it wasn't. In fact, when Ed had brought up his fortune the other morning, it wasn't the first time that Heather had thought of it. She had been well aware that he had millions coming his way. She just hadn't known how
many
millions....

But I didn't start going out with Ed again for his money,
she reminded herself. That was what counted. It certainly hadn't been her motivation when she kissed him at his sister's engagement party. Of course not. That wasn't what Heather Gannis was about. No way.

The only thing was, she had no idea what else Heather Gannis
could
be about.

 

No Problem at All

GAIA WAS HAVING A HARD TIME
concentrating.
She was thinking about sex.
Then again, she figured she wasn't in the minority. At any given time, it would be safe to say that ninety percent of the Village School's student body was thinking about sex. Maybe she
was
really becoming a normal teenager.