Don’t think about the man in the house. He doesn’t know where it is.
I can grab it before he knows better.
More and more bees swarm my body. Carefully, I step onto the shorter crunchy brown grass and start across. It can’t be more than fifteen steps to the patio. Then only a few more to the door.
My mind jumps to the morbid thought that I’m trying to push away: There is very little Revive in the house, and surely Jesus has already taken it to boost God’s stash. Even if there was a spare syringe, there’s no one sane to administer it. I’m alone.
A bee lands on my forehead as I step onto the concrete patio. I can feel it crawling across, finding the perfect spot to inject its venom. I manage to stay calm until, suddenly, a person appears behind the sliding door. The sun is reflecting on the glass so I can’t see more than a shadow, but still it terrifies me. I gasp and stop moving.
And that’s what sets them off.
Bees on my arms, cheeks, head, and neck start stinging at once, like they’re synchronized. In the second before I close my eyes, the reflection on the door shifts and I realize that it’s Cassie.
She’s home!
A wave of relief rushes through me despite the fact that bees are wreaking havoc on my body.
“Cassie!” I scream. The bees try to crawl in my mouth, so I slam it shut. I walk, covered with bees like a beekeeper but without the protective gear, two more steps.
Elated that I’ve reached the door, I extend my hand to open it.
Cassie reaches over to help.
I hear the lock click shut.
Baffled, I try the door. It’s definitely locked.
Confused, through blurred vision, I stare at Cassie. Maybe she doesn’t understand. Maybe she thinks she unlocked it. Except…
Her face is normal. Neutral. Robotic. But there’s also a hint of curiosity.
I realize that Cassie’s actually typing something into her phone. How can she be working at a time like this? My other line beeps. Even though I know who it is, I decide to answer, hoping God will show me mercy. I flip back over.
“Now you see the error of your ways,” God says, enjoying this. When I don’t speak, he continues. “Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag now,” he says jovially. “Daisy, meet Jesus. You might also know her as Cassie.”
My eyes widen as I look in disbelief at the woman I’ve lived with for six years. The woman I’ve pretended to love like a mother. I get it now: She’s been in communication with him. Today. Maybe always.
Fruitlessly, I tug at the door again. Cassie shrugs a shoulder at me and smiles. Then, like it’s nothing, she turns and walks away, my school backpack slung over her shoulder and cases in both hands.
“Don’t feel bad, Daisy,” God is saying in my ear. “The problem is that you’re too smart for your own good. You and Mason were never going to survive this day. The bees just gave us some extra fun. Enjoy!”
God disconnects and the rage rushes out of me: I scream as loud as I can. A bee stings my tongue. More sickened by that than by the external bites, I chomp down hard and spit it out. Desperately, I flip back to Matt, but he’s not there. I drop the phone and run over to the garden hose. Somehow, through already puffy eyes, I manage to turn on the water and scare off the majority of the bees.
But it’s too late.
They’ve done their worst.
I fall to the concrete, wheezing and swelling, dropping the hose next to me. I cry out even though my face, tongue, and neck are expanding, making it increasingly difficult to speak.
“Cassie!” I shout. “How could you do this?”
I know it’s fruitless; she’s already gone. I try to shout a generic “Help!” to draw in the neighbors, but I’m wheezing now and the word is nothing but a whispered “hup.”
Then I stop trying, and I know it won’t be long.
Seconds later, my throat closes up completely.
And just before the bright day goes dark, I think of Audrey.
forty-one
I open my eyes, but not all the way.
My field of vision is limited. It’s as if I’m looking through my hands curled into O’s, like mock binoculars. I hear movement and have to turn my head because I have no peripheral vision.
Mason is sitting in a chair next to my hospital bed.
I blink at him. He smiles and takes my left hand, and in his hand mine feels funny. Not numb, but… wrong. I look down at my arms: They’re bloated like they’ve been pumped with air, red and blotchy. My left arm is attached to an IV and I can’t help but wonder how they found a vein through all that marshmallow skin. I don’t have to look in a mirror to know that my face looks the same way; instinctively, I touch my puffy cheek.
Mason’s eyes are watery, and he’s blinking like he’s trying not to cry.
“Hi, Daisy,” he says warmly. I look around, squinting, trying to make my eyes work properly. Mason takes it as me not knowing where I am. “You’re at the hospital. You were attacked by bees, but you’re okay now. You’re safe.”
I let go of Mason’s hand so I can pat an itch on my forehead, knowing well enough not to use my fingernails—I don’t want scars. I pat another on my right arm as a nurse breezes in to check on me. She tips forward a little as she walks, like she’s about to fall over. She has punk-rock hair—a bleach-blond boy cut—even though she’s the age of a grandmother.
“Welcome back, young lady,” she says as she puts a finger on my wrist and looks at the clock. Her words are kind, but her face is all business.
“Thanks,” I say, managing to talk even though my lips are stuck together. “Did you…” I whisper to Mason. He shakes his head and glances at the nurse. She does something behind me, then writes on my chart. Mason waits for her to leave before he answers me.
“Matt saved you,” he says. “He called nine-one-one. And…”
“What?”
“He also contacted Megan.”
I stare at Mason for a second, realizing that he knows I told Matt about the program. But breaking the rules might have also saved both of our lives. Mason’s not saying more about it, so I decide to gloss over it, too.
“How?” I ask. Pat, pat.
“Through the blog,” Mason says. Pat, pat.
“That was so smart of him,” I say, amazed. I wipe at nothing under my right eye, and it’s then that I realize what’s blocking my vision: skin. My own swollen skin.
“Yes,” Mason says, bringing me back, “it was clever.”
“Cassie…” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. When I do, I feel the sting wounds on my scalp rubbing against the pillow. Aware of them now, I pat my head.
“I know,” he says. “I can’t believe that she was watching our every move all this time. Plotting with God. I can’t fathom how or why….” His voice trails off and, for a second, he looks distractedly out the window.
“So did I die?” I whisper, because who knows where the nurse went.
“Yes,” Mason says, his green eyes back on me.
“Tell me what happened,” I say, mostly because I want to know, but also because I need a distraction. I’ve been stung by bees before, but it’s never been this bad. It’s like having PMS bloat throughout my whole body instead of just in my midsection; I have to wiggle my fingers so they don’t go numb from losing circulation. That, coupled with the itchy, burning pain of my body rejecting the venom, is making me feel like I’m going to freak out.