Page 16 of Almost Ravaged

“I’m not feeling great,” I say, groaning a bit as I reluctantly peel my hand off Ty’s arm and sit up straighter.

Atty meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “I told you that blue shit wasn’t good for you.”

I don’t respond. It’s best to let him think that my current state is due to the gobs of Blue Monster ice cream I consumed rather than the anticipatory ache of not being able to touch his best friend.

“I’ve got to study for our calculus final. It’s Tuesday,” Tytus gripes.

“Shit.” My brother looks over at him, his eyes wide. “That’s on Tuesday?”

I snort. Schoolwork has never kept Atty from doing what he wants. Our parents are both tenured professors, but I got all the book smarts in the womb. Atty does okay in school, but playing hockey at a professional level has always been his goal.

A yawn catches me by surprise, which is why my eyes are closed and my brain is a bit behind when Atty curses under his breath.

“Who parks like that?”

As he slows the car, I sit forward, peering between the boys’ massive frames.

Ahead, a decrepit brown F-150 is parked catawampus in front of the porch. The rusty driver’s door is still open, the dome light casting a dim glow over the interior.

“What the hell?” Atty puts the car in park and yanks the keys out with more force than necessary, his movements urgent.

A trickle of dread coats my insides, ominous and thick.

Something’s wrong.

Tytus speaks, though he sounds far away. “The front door of the house is open.”

Breath held, I zero in on the porch, taking in the pretty French-blue front door my mom repainted three times last summer before committing to a color.

It’s not just ajar. It’s wide open.

My heart thunders in my ears. “Atty?”

Without responding, he exits the car.

Something’s really wrong.

We follow, Ty pausing long enough to help me out of the back seat.

“Atty,” I say again, my voice breaking. It’s the only word my lips will form.

Maybe my reaction fuels his anxiety. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Regardless, when my brother looks back at me, the unadulterated fear that paints his expression seeps into my bones and spreads like an aggressive, malignant disease.

Something’s not right.

Something’s really fucking wrong.

A piece of gravel finds its way into my trainer, and the pain that lances my foot as I step forward brings me to the here and now. Though I can’t stop, not even to fish it out.

As if I’m tethered to my brother, I charge ahead. Tytus walks between us, several paces ahead of me now.

I widen my stride, then break into a jog.

My midsection constricts, as if caught in a vise, and dread percolates in my gut.

It’s probably nothing.

We’re overreacting.