I started to get a larcenous itch. Or maybe not larcenous, since I wasn’t going to steal anything, but definitely felonious. The lock on that camper door wasn’t anything. I wouldn’t even need my picks. I could just pop it out of the frame—
From inside came the sound of glass rolling, and then a clink-thunk as it fell and hit the floor. Someone moaned.
The image of Foster came back to me, kissing Channelle at the Bay Bridge Suites. And Foster’s cold eyes. And the way Foster had forced that pill between September’s lips. The hair on my arms did its best impersonation of a hedgehog.
Run, a sensible voice in my head said. Call Bobby. Put on a bulletproof vest.
But this was Keme’s mom.
When I tried the handle, it turned, and the door opened easily. The sound of the hinges was almost nothing—lost under another rush of wind that batted at my wet hair and rippled the pines around us. When it faded, the soft sound of breathing came out of the camper’s darkened interior. All I could make out was the layout: the sofa where Foster had been lounging on my last visit, the kitchenette, the slide-out dinette where September and I had sat.
And then my eyes fixed on a shadowy bulk that I didn’t remember. After several long seconds, I realized I was staring at a pair of feet sticking out from the dinette slide-out.
I stepped up into the camper. It rocked slightly, squeaking on its aging suspension. The noise seemed enormous, swallowing up the sound of those small breaths. The far end of the camper seemed even darker, if possible. I could barely make out the weird octagonal bunks in the bedroom; next to them, the door to the tiny bathroom was ajar. The faint, acrid bite of vomit hung in the air.
September lay on the slide-out’s bench, her head under the table. She was still breathing, but she didn’t seem to know I was there. My eyes went to the darkness behind the bathroom door. I couldn’t see anything, but I had that same sense of eyes again. A fishbowl, I thought. The world’s tiniest fishbowl. I wanted to laugh, and I bit my lip so I wouldn’t.
“September,” I whispered. And then, a bit more loudly, “September. Can you hear me? It’s Dash, Keme’s friend.”
Something in her next moan sounded like acknowledgment.
“I’m going to help you sit up,” I told her. “You’re sick.”
She didn’t object, so I got hold of her arm and tugged. She was dressed in some sort of billowy, ruffled blouse andvelvety trousers, with about a million necklaces that clicked and clattered as I tried to maneuver her. The whole ensemble looked like something Janet Joplin would have put together. Wait, was it Janet Joplin or Janis Joplin? And I thought maybe she wore glasses, so September lost a few points there.
Something in the camper popped.
I cut my eyes back to the darkened opening of the bathroom.
Nothing but darkness.
My heart didn’t care. My heart was galloping at about a million miles an hour.
“Up,” I whispered, and the fraying edge of my patience was clear even to me. “Sit up. September, you’ve got to sit up!”
She wasn’t exactly a rag doll, but she wasn’t doing much to help, either. She groaned. A lot. And her weight on the bench’s cushion meant that when I pulled too hard, she threatened to come sliding off the bench, cushion and all. Finally, though, I got her upright. Her eyes were open, and even in the dimly lit interior, I thought her face looked puffy from crying. She looked at me, but she didn’t seem to see me.
“September, did you take something?” I asked.
She stared out at me from behind glassy eyes. Her breath was so high in her body that it sounded like it was in her mouth.
“What did you take?” I asked. “September, I need you to talk to me.”
“You’re Keme’s friend,” she said, the words slurred.
“That’s right. We’re going to get you some help. You’re going to be okay.”
As I dug my phone out of my pocket, she said, “Keme’s such a good boy.”
“Uh huh,” I said. I placed a call to Bobby, but it rang until it went to voicemail.
What now? I could call 911. But would it be better to load her into the Pilot and drive her to the hospital myself? I mean, she was breathing, and she was conscious (kind of).
“I need to—” September’s voice dissolved into breathy confusion. “Help.” She struggled again. “Foster.”
“What about Foster? What did Foster do?”
“Foster,” she said. In the storm light filtering in through the windows, past the old aluminum mini-blinds and the vinyl clings of happy ghosts and goblins, her face still held that Disney princess beauty. And then she gripped the table and, to my total and one-hundred-percent surprise, dragged herself clear of the slide-out.
