The Boys are Back in Town

They evacuated the entire building.

You’re vaguely aware that Jonah sits beside you on the front steps where the paramedics keep asking you the same questions over and over again. They keep shining that stupid bright light in your eyes.

You haven’t found your voice, yet.

You pull the blanket they gave you up over your head like a hood. You’re shivering even though it’s at least eighty-five degrees outside. Your clothes are still wet. You want to take them off and burn them.

A crowd now gathers at the perimeter, drawn by the flashing lights. Everybody wants to know what’s going on. The whole building’s been taped off. They don’t want anyone accidentally walking in to see what you saw. What Bennet and his coworker Andy saw.

Jonah puts his arm around you and rubs your shoulder. He says something about your skin. His words slur together as they reach your ears and you don’t have the resolve to untangle them.

You can’t get that horror out of your head. They’re treating you for shock. At least, you assume they are. They tried giving you oxygen when they first brought you outside but it only freaked you out more. Now it sits on standby.

It’s dark now. You think you’re calm. Calm is the wrong word. You’re not panicking. You’re not freaking out. But to say what you are is kind of impossible at the moment because the only word that comes to mind is “empty.” The lights are brighter and the crowd at the crime scene tape is thinning.

A man in a suit says something to you about asking a few questions. You hear it, but you can’t make yourself answer right away. You’re stuck in a dead stare at nothing, which is better than staring at Professor McFarlane - or what’s left of him. You’re desperate to get him out of your head.

You feel dizzy. Nausea comes on too quickly and before you can warn anyone, you vomit all over the ground at your feet. Your shoes are going to be burned anyway, so you don’t care that you just threw up on them.

“I’ll come back later,” says the man in a suit. An impatient man, apparently. You don’t look up so you don’t see his face. You don’t recognize his voice. He walks away, presumably to talk to the other witnesses.

That’s what you are now: a witness.

That’s what they’re calling you, anyway.

You hope he doesn’t come back. You don’t want to have to talk about what you saw.

Jonah helps you wipe vomit from your chin. He’s such a good friend. Such a good friend.

You want to tell him you want to go home, but your mouth won’t obey. Truth is, you don’t know if you can handle being alone tonight, but you definitely need to get away from here.

It gets a little darker. Jonah’s removed your shoes and moved you to another spot so you don’t have to sit in your own vomit. You stare at your socks. They need to go. They’re still wet from the bathroom. You’ve never seen a dead body in real life before. Not like this. Funerals are different. At funerals, they hide the deadness. They make the bodies look like sleeping people. You finally convince your arm to do what you want it to do. Your muscles respond and you reach down to tug at your socks. You don’t realize you’re whimpering again until Jonah crouches in front of you and yanks the socks off for you. He throws them toward the puddle of vomit you left behind. He’s such a good friend.

You can’t stand it anymore. You’ve been sitting there for hours. You want to leave, but the EMTs won’t let you. You stand up on weak knees, and Jonah is right by your side. “Whoa,” he says, steadying you by your shoulders. “Where are we going?”

You look around. You don’t know where to go but you know you have to put distance between you and that building. You move toward the caution tape. You zeroed in on a small patch of grass that ended up inside the perimeter. Jonah knows what you want and he goes with you. You tug the blanket tighter around you. It kind of stinks like vomit.

As soon as your bare feet feel the grass, you collapse onto your knees and huddle into a ball. You want to cry. Maybe you’ll feel better if you cry. You’ll feel something, at least. But you can’t.

Jonah sits on the grass beside you. He’s talking but he doesn’t expect you to answer. He’s talking so that you’ll know he’s there. He thinks it will comfort you. Maybe it does. Maybe you’d be worse off without him here. You don’t know. You’ve never been through this shit before.

Now you’re swearing. That only happens when things are seriously bad.

The EMTs check you over again once they realize you’ve moved. They take your blood pressure again. They want you to go to the hospital with them. It doesn’t sound like a choice. Jonah can’t ride in the ambulance, but he can meet you at the hospital. They tell him where they’re taking you. Only Jonah can coax you into relaxing on the stretcher. He talks you into letting them put the oxygen mask on again. “It’ll help,” he says. “I’ll see you there. Hang in there.”

You’re strapped down to the stretcher. “For safety,” they say.

Mine or yours? you wonder.

Just before the door shuts, the impatient man in the suit asks the EMTs where they’re taking you. When you look at him, you see that he’s not alone. He has a partner standing beside him. A partner who is taller than anyone you know, and looks at you with that distinct eye squint you’ve never been able to forget. This time, the corners of his mouth are not upturned. They’re down. You lock eyes with him. You’re stuck in the oxygen mask and strapped down to the stretcher, so all you can do is watch his face as he tries to figure out if and why you look familiar until they close the doors.